The Courtesan
by delightful-fear
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures. John takes a job as a live-in doctor in the most exclusive brothel in London, never thinking he would fall under the spell of it's most infamous consort, Sherlock Holmes. An AU set in 1860's Victorian England.
1. Chapter 1

John stepped out of the hansom cab, pulling out the paper from his breast pocket, squinting at the address in horrible doctor scrawl on it.

"Are you sure this is the place?" John peered up at the cabbie. "122 Kebar St?"

The cabbie nodded, pointing to large, wrought iron gates, before urging his horse to trot on.

Sighing, John straightened his suit jacket, and headed towards the open entrance. There was a long stretch of gravel leading up to the grand building beyond.

As he walked, John took in the manicured gardens, full of trimmed hedges and flowerbeds. At the end of the lane, there was a circular fountain, water spouting ten feet into the air.

The building was golden sandstone, with wide steps leading to stained glass doors. John felt small and insignificant, standing in front of such grandeur after he knocked. What had Mike gotten him into?

The door eventually opened, a doorman in a dark grey uniform giving John an inquiring look.

"Good day. My name is Dr. Watson. I have an appointment to see a Mr...um..." The name slipped his memory, and John fumbled to pull out the letter from Mike. "...Mr. Lestrade." John read out, and then pushed the worn paper back into his pocket.

The young man nodded, opening the door wider to allow John to enter. The foyer was huge, a leaded glass dome arching overhead and letting in plenty of light. Staircases swooped up each side of the large space, and elaborate silk tapestries hung on the walls. John had to pull his eyes away from the beautiful decor to follow the doorman.

Walking quickly deep into the house, the man stopped at a wooden door, knocking on it sharply. A voice inside called out in acknowledgement, and the doorman waved John inside.

A handsome man with salt and pepper hair stood up from his desk, walking around it to shake John's hand. "Greg Lestrade. I'm the business manager here."

John shook his hand and introduced himself, taking a seat in front of the desk.

"We may as well get started. A colleague may enter later on." Lestrade gathered some papers, moving them to the side. "Dr. Stamford highly recommends you, Dr. Watson."

John nodded, feeling nervous. He really needed this job.

Lestrade gave John a direct look, his dark eyes assessing. "So, do you know what type of business this is?"

Furrowing his brow slightly, John tried to remember if Mike had mentioned it in the letter. He had only mentioned it was a thriving business that needed a live-in doctor. "Sorry, Dr. Stamford failed to give me those details."

"Well, I will tell you, and I want you to seriously consider if the nature of the business goes against your morals or beliefs. I will understand if you want to stop the interview and leave." Lestrade tapped a pen against his papers. "This is a brothel."

John's eyebrows rose, and he struggled to get his mind around the idea. The beautiful grounds and huge mansion clashed strongly with it. "A - a brothel?"

Lestrade nodded. "A high end one, of course. Only the most elite people can afford to come here."

"And you need a doctor for..." John blinked, his brain still seeming sluggish, dealing with all this.

The door opened and a tall, slim man slipped in, closing the door behind him. He nodded at Lestrade and took the chair off to the side of the desk, facing towards John.

"Sherlock, glad you could make it." Lestrade said, turning his head to address the man.

Sherlock was dressed in a well-tailored black suit, and he appeared to be several years younger than John. His hair was dark, and his eyes seemed quite light. John felt pinned under his inquisitive gaze. But his attention was pulled back to Lestrade when he continued talking.

"We want to keep our workers healthy, so we want you to do medical checks on them weekly. We also screen all incoming clients, and turn away those with possible contagious diseases."

John was surprised at that. "Medical check-ups on all the clients?" Surely that would be dozens of men every day.

Lestrade gave an understanding look. "You will find this is an unusual brothel. Our consorts only have one client each a night. And we are only open Tuesdays to Saturdays."

John was about to comment on that when a rich baritone interrupted. "Afghanistan or Persia?"

Turning his head to Sherlock in surprise, John tried to make sense of the question. "Pardon me?"

"Are you back from Afghanistan or Persia?" Sherlock steepled his fingers, resting his chin on them as he gazed calmly at John.

John blinked a few times. "Oh, um, I was in both. Persia more recently. The Great Game, and all that."

"Army doctor invalided out. No close family to stay with, so you are considering this post. Well, I doubt this work with bother your leg, or your shoulder." Sherlock said quickly, nodding. He stood up. "Good. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson will get you settled in."

Before John could say anything else, Sherlock left the room, closing the door behind him.

John was still looking a bit stunned at Sherlock's comments. How had he known all that? Surely Mike hadn't divulged all those details in his recommendation.

"Um, yes...so, that was Sherlock Holmes. Please forgive his interruption of our interview." Lestrade shifted in his chair.

John tore his gaze away from the door, trying to regroup. "And who is Mr. Holmes?"

Lestrade let out a surprised chuckle. "Oh, you have been away from England a long time if you haven't heard of him. He owns this house, this business."

This conversation was just getting odder and odder. "So, he is a ...pimp?" John struggled for the right word, not wanting to offend his potential employer.

Lestrade's eyes crinkled a little in the corners. "We have a rather unusual business. Those who wish to entertain clients here pay a monthly fee. It covers their room, board and basic services. They negotiate individually with their clients about prices and services."

"So, what does Mr. Holmes do?" John still felt confused.

Lestrade leaned forward. "There really isn't a word that totally fits him, but the best one would likely be a courtesan. He is probably the highest paid and most notorious one in all of England."

John looked towards the door, trying to bring up the vivid image of the man who had just left the office with this shocking idea. "Who...who are his customers?"

Chuckling at John's response, Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "The richest of the rich. Nobility, some royalty, leaders in industry. He is booked solid for months."

Shaking his head, John felt like he had been dropped into some wonderland. Everything was upside-down and backwards. Had England changed so much since he was away?

"So, Dr. Watson, will you take the job? We would want you to start as soon as you can get settled here." Lestrade's voice was firm, but not loud. He was a man used to being in authority.

Meeting his direct dark gaze, John found himself nodding. "Yes, I accept." He didn't have other options, and couldn't afford to be that picky. If nothing else, at least this job appeared to be interesting. This was crazy, but still exciting.

* * *

\- Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: This is set around 1860s or so. I'm still firming up the time. I like research, but I just finished a historical fanfic for a different fandom that took place in early 1910s and don't want to get bogged down in as much research for this fic. I will try to be historically accurate and put notes at the end of chapters with historical references. Please forgive my errors and artistic license. :D

-British imperialism flourished under Queen Victoria. By 1900, Brits controlled 1/5 of the world's land, and 1/4 of the world's population. No wonder English is spoken in so many countries today.

-The Great Game (~1830-1895) - In the 19th century, after Napoleon's and Spain's power declined, Britain and Russia were the world's super powers. They fought over Afghanistan and neighbouring countries, each fearing the other gaining too much ground in Asia. I like that it's the same name as used for the Sherlock episode that introduced Jim Moriarty.

-Afghanistan or Persia: The 1st Anglo-Afghan War was in 1839. 1857 - Afghanistan declared war on Persia (present day Iraq). 2nd Anglo-Afghan War was in 1878 (as mentioned in The Abominable Bride). John was busy in British armies all over the area.

-The Courtesan - I struggled to find a good name for the fic and for Sherlock's role. 'Courtesan' still feels like it refers to a female more than a male, but it feels closest to what I'm intending for his character. If I come up with something better, watch out for a name change to the fic.

This is a work in progress and I'll add tags as I go, as characters come up.


	2. Chapter 2

The alarm clock went off, and John yawned as he rolled over to turn it off. Getting up, he quickly splashed his face with water and dressed.

The dining hall was only about a third full, and John easily found a seat by the window, gazing out at the rose garden as he sipped his coffee.

It didn't take long for the most of the staff to trickle in, the volume level of the conversation surrounding him increasing. The sound of that and the coffee were waking him up, so by the time Mrs. Hudson sat beside him, he felt ready for a chat.

"How are you settling in, Doctor?" She stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea, and gave John a friendly smile.

John returned it easily. "Very well. I must say I'm quite impressed with how smoothly things run around here. Mr. Lestrade, Miss Donovan and yourself do a great job managing it."

Mrs. Hudson looked pleased. She reached over and gave his hand a little squeeze. "I think it comes from hiring the right people. I'm so glad you have joined us. I've heard nothing but good things about you from everyone."

The comment was nice to hear. It had been a rough couple of weeks, adjusting to his new role, but he was feeling more comfortable with the routine now.

Looking around the room, he was still pretty amazed at how many staff lived in the house to keep it running smoothly. Gardeners, stable boys, doormen, housemaids, laundry workers, and cooks. Mrs. Hudson managed the house staff, and Mr. Lestrade managed the security and business operations. Miss Donovan managed the consorts, and client scheduling.

John finished his toast and eggs, accepting a coffee refill from a server walking around with a fresh pot.

"How is the work? Do the late nights bother you at all?" Mrs. Hudson gave him a concerned look, her natural caring nature coming through.

John chuckled to himself at her query. Compared to roughing it in an army tent in a foreign country, living and working here was very comfortable. "I don't find it goes that late. I'm usually done examining clients by 10 pm."

"If you find it rushed in the mornings to come for breakfast at 9 am, you can arrange for a tray in your room for a later time." Her maternal fussing was touching, something John hadn't been around for so long.

John shook his head. "I'm used to army hours, so this is good for me. I doubt I could sleep in later if I tried."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled along with him. "Do you have enough to occupy your time here? I know the staff medicals are usually scheduled in the afternoon."

John nodded in agreement. Aside from the weekly check-ups with the consorts, he had semi-annual appointments with the rest of the staff, and handling medical issues as they arose. Even so, he was finding he had a lot of time on his hands. He didn't want to seem like he was bored or complaining though. "Well, um, I have unpacked and caught up on some correspondence..."

"Oh dear. Did I forget to mention that all the staff have access to everything on the main floor of the house during the day? You are welcome to walk in the gardens, ride the horses, read in the library. Also, we bring in a lot of instructors on various topics and anyone can sign up for those sessions." Mrs. Hudson was practically out of breath, rushing to tell all this to John.

John was surprised at this perk. To be allowed such access to the house and grounds would be fantastic. "Did you mention a library...?"

Standing up, Mrs. Hudson collected their dishes. "I certainly did. Let me show you the way."

* * *

It took a few days until John had a free block of time available to really explore the library. He had been looking forward to this, ever since he had peeked into the vast room with Mrs. Hudson.

The weather was nice out, so John didn't expect to find many people still indoors that afternoon. He could explore on his own.

Coming through the thick oak doors, John took a moment to appreciate the scene. Early afternoon light streamed through large windows, showing off the tall bookcases lining all the walls. A ladder was fixed to a brass bar, ready to make the higher books accessible.

His hands were clasped behind his back and an almost goofy smile of his face as John stepped to the closest bookshelf. He perused the titles, looking for how they had been categorized. It appeared to be by topic, and he strolled along, seeing books on philosophy, mythology, and history.

Turning a corner, his heart jumped in his chest as the great books of science appeared. He couldn't hold back anymore. He traced his fingertips over the spines of the thick, leather-bound books, a tingling feeling racing up his arm.

Before he knew it, his arm was hugging a few close, as he scanned more shelves. This collection was diverse and must have cost a fortune. John had never seen so many books in one place before.

When he couldn't hold any more, John turned to look for a table to sit and read. There was a wide oak table there, but it was already occupied by a young woman.

"Hello there." John said softly, not wanting to interrupt her intense concentration.

His efforts didn't help much, as the young woman still jumped a little in her seat, and her head whipped up to John.

Trying to repress a chuckle at her reaction, John took his time setting down his books on the table, and sat on the chair across from her.

"I'm John Watson." He considered holding out his hand to shake hers, but felt such an action would scare her away. Already, she looked like she was considering running out the door, her large dark eyes reminding him of a startled rabbit.

Her head was tilted downwards; her face flushed a deep red. Her eyes flicked up to John before she glanced back at her lap. "Molly Hooper."

John leaned forward, and barely caught her mumbled utterance. He tried the smile he used on scared toddlers. "I'm the new doctor here. What is your job?"

Swallowing hard, she raised her face a little more, and managed to look at John's chin. "Housemaid."

Nodding, John wondered if she was perhaps a little slow. She seemed so uncomfortable. Perhaps the kind Mrs. Hudson had taken pity on her and given her a simple job of scrubbing the floors and making the beds.

"Well, it's nice having company here as we read. This is certainly a lovely library." John looked over his books and pulled out 'On the Origin of the Species'. He had friends mention the book, but hadn't had a chance to read it yet. The fact that this library had this relatively new book showed someone was keeping up the collection well.

Molly had dipped her head down into her book, and was reading as intently as she had been when he interrupted her.

"So, what are you reading?" John's curiosity drove him to ask, closing his book and holding his place with a finger.

Looking up a little sheepishly, she tilted it up for John to read the cover.

"The Voyage of the Beagle." John tilted his head to the side to read. He smiled at the shy woman. "I don't know that one. Is it a story about a dog?"

Right before him, the corners of her eyes crinkled up, and she chuckled. She put down her book, covering her laugh with a hand as she tried to get ahold of her mirth. "Ah no...," she finally managed. "It is about a five year journey of a scientist at sea. He studied the biology and geology of many places they visited..."

John's eyebrows rose, the reason why the title seemed familiar now coming to mind. "Charles Darwin?"

Molly nodded, surprise in her own expression.

Chuckling now himself, John lifted his own book to show her the title.

Shaking her head, Molly smiled in delight, her shyness seeming to fall away. "Oh, that is a lovely book. I've read it several times. I'm so glad Mr. Holmes added it to the library."

Several times? "And what do you think of his controversial theories?"

"Well, they only make sense. Have you read this?" She pointed to her book, and John shook her head.

Molly jumped up, running to the bookcase and finding another, pushing it into John's hand. "Here, read this and 'Voyage'. We will discuss them afterwards. I'm sure you will see the basis for the theories then."

Pushing her original book towards him, Molly smiled and rushed out of the library.

John grinned out after the fleeing housemaid. Looking down at the slim volume she had given him, he read the title. 'Experiments of Plant Hybridization' by Gregor Mendel.

Chuckling to himself, John settled down to read.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Charles Darwin. 'The Voyage of the Beagle' (1839) is the common name for the book, more officially titled 'The Narrative of the Voyages of H.M. Ships Adventure and Beagle' (the third volume, with other ones written by commanders of the ships). But that title would have screwed up my oh-so-funny joke. ;) 'On the Origin of the Species' was published in 1859.

-'Experiments of Plant Hybridization' by Gregor Mendel (1865). Mendel's work was with pea plants, and identified dominant and recessive traits. This scientific paper wasn't that widely known at the time, but was later rediscovered around 1900, and genetic theory as we know it really took off. Charles Darwin was said to not be aware of this paper. Let's assume Sherlock got an early English translation of it.


	3. Chapter 3

Pulling at his suit jacket, John stepped into the ballroom. The room was already quite full, and the musicians were playing a lively piece.

Nodding at many of the staff as he walked through the crowd, John accepted a glass of wine and sipped it as he took in the scene. Everyone was dressed up beautifully, the women with their hair styled into elaborate updos. A buffet table along one wall was heaped with tempting food. Servers milled through the crowd with trays of wine glasses. People were gathered in small groups everywhere, chatting animatedly.

A face he hadn't seen for a while suddenly appeared beside him, and John was enveloped in a tight hug. "John! It's good to see you."

Grinning widely, John took in his smiling friend. "Mike. I'm happy you are here."

"Oh, I always try to come out for Sherlock's parties each month. They always have the best food, drink and company." Mike traded his empty glass for a full one. "How are you enjoying working here?"

John shook his head slowly. "I still feel like I should pinch myself to make sure this is all real most days. I like the work, and living here is incredible."

One of the consorts, Claire, walked past in a velvet burgundy gown, the rich colour setting off her lovely raven hair. Mike's eyes followed her appreciatively. "I'll say it's incredible."

John chuckled and nudged Mike's shoulder. "You had your chance! Didn't you say they offered it to you first?"

Mike sighed. "Yes, but there's no way my wife would be alright with me working in a brothel, no matter how fancy."

"But she lets you come to these parties?" John could see how Mike was looking over all the women here, his gaze very interested.

Mike glanced back to John. "She knows it's mostly for business. I can socialize with a lot of rich people here, potential clients. Plus, it keeps me on Sherlock's good side, keeps him as my patient."

Hearing that confirmed the rumours John had heard around the house. He had been curious why Sherlock didn't come to his office for check-ups. "Oh, so he's at your office every week, then?"

"Every week? Hardly!" Mike laughed. "Once or twice a year, if that."

John was surprised, and sipped his drink to hide it. Why would Sherlock have such thorough medical screening of the consorts and clients in the house, but not for himself? "But he's healthy? No signs of any problems?"

Mike's eyebrows rose at the question. "You know I can't talk about a patient's medical file without their consent."

Nodding, John felt a bit sheepish for overstepping. But still, curiosity gnawed at him. "What can you tell me about him? I hear so many rumours about him at the house, I don't know what to believe anymore." John rarely even saw him around the house, as Sherlock mostly stayed in his own wing of the mansion.

Mike had lived in London for years, and travelled in a wide variety of social circles. His wife came from a wealthy background, so he had many connections. If anyone knew anything, he would.

Mike shrugged. "He doesn't talk a lot about himself. I've heard things too, but don't know how much of its true. He supposedly has fairly wealthy parents, and I think they were out in India for several years when he was a boy. Did quite well for themselves. Then they were back here and Sherlock went to all the good schools." He took a sip of his drink, thinking. "I only heard about him a few years ago, when suddenly everyone seemed to be mentioning his unusual name."

John nodded, taking in the information. Why would a man with a wealthy family be in this business, selling himself? They both turned back to watching the crowd, Mike often greeting an acquaintance, and introducing them to John. Internally, John was chuckling, as many of them were clients who had been at the house in the last month. John had only known them by their first names, so it was nice to learn their full names and see them in their regular clothes. He acted like he was meeting them for the first time, keeping their secrets, and could tell his discretion impressed the clients.

About an hour later, there was a lull in the background noise, as everyone seemed to quiet in their conversations and turn towards the doorway. John cursed his shorter stature as he tried to peer though the crowd at what had captured everyone's attention.

In a few moments, there was a gap that allowed John a glance. It was Sherlock, dressed in white tie like most of the men at the party. His black coat was perfectly tailored, showing his slim frame in the fitted white vest. His full dark trousers made him look tall, although he was not the tallest man in the room.

It wasn't his finely tailored clothes that caught so many glances, but the enigmatic man in them. Although smiling and looking friendly as he greeted his guests, John got the sense Sherlock wasn't fully present. That he held a piece of himself back.

John was jerked out of his speculation when those light green eyes lifted and were directed right his way. He felt like a dull wren among swans, dressed in his best tweed three-piece suit. Maybe if he ended up staying here more than a few months, it would be worth buying a more formal suit for occasions like this.

He felt relieved when Sherlock looked away, and noticed Mike giving him a knowing smile. "What?"

Mike grinned. "Hmmm...always thought only birds caught your eye, but I see things have changed since I saw you last."

John lowered his brow, not understanding the comment at first. Then he shook his head quickly. "No, no...I don't want..." Mike was still smirking at John's discomfort. "Yes, just women for me, thanks. I'm just curious about Sherlock because I work for the bloke and hardly know anything about him."

"Sure, sure..." Mike chuckled as he finished off his drink. "Tell me, though...Sherlock sees both male and female clients, doesn't he?"

John could only nod in agreement. All month, his last client each night was the one for Sherlock. They were mostly men, but almost every week there was at least one woman. Beautiful, young women, who could have easily have any man they wanted. But they were at the house, and paying for Sherlock's attentions. What did he do that brought back his clients for more? That put him in such high demand?

They chatted on, having a good visit. John enjoyed it, but his attention was often pulled away, watching Sherlock working the crowd. Everyone greeted him warmly, chatting excitedly with him, crowding closer. Bouncing around him like eager puppies. There was an energy, a magnetic pull, to Sherlock, and obviously John wasn't the only one who felt it. It was a bit disturbing. Confusing.

"Ah...Mike...I think I'm going to call it a night. I'll come in sometime soon for lunch with you, alright?" John clapped a hand against the doctor's arm.

Mike gave him a warm look. "Or come by for supper on your day off. Rebecca would love to see you."

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next few weeks, John settled even more into the rhythms of the house.

After breakfast, he often took a ride, either around town to do errands, or in the green parks of the city, preferring to find trails with more wild growth instead of manicured gardens. When he got back mid-morning, he tinkered around in his office, making sure he had enough materials on hand and working on some of his own concoctions.

After lunch, he did the scheduled appointments with staff, and usually found time for a walk in the garden before tea. After tea, he read in the library, with Molly frequently joining him there and suggesting books when he finished one. Her work was early in the day, and she often squirrelled herself away in the library for most of the afternoon and evening.

Overall, he was quite content with his lifestyle. He liked who he worked with, liked the chatting with the clients, liked the comfort of the house. Financially, he was able to save most of his salary, as he didn't need much beyond the room and board provided.

But after a couple months, John felt a sense of unrest growing inside him. It was harder to settle and concentrate on a book. He went for longer, more vigorous walks, trying to tire himself out physically, but he still found it hard to sleep some nights. What was missing?

* * *

John tidied up his office as his client left, getting it ready for the next. He went to the washbasin, pouring fresh water over his hands and lathering up, before rinsing them.

Billy knocked softly on the door and let in John's next client.

"Jeremiah. It is good to see you again. How are you?" John waved the young man into the office, closing the door behind him. The dark haired man was a client John had seen in his first week at the house.

Clearly no stranger to the process, Jeremiah got up on the examination table. "I'm doing good, Doctor." He gave an easy smile.

Stepping closer, John made polite chit chat as he ran through the familiar routine. Starting at his hair and moving downwards. No signs of lice, the whites of his eyes clear and bright, his lymph nodes perhaps slightly swollen, but that could just be from a cold.

"I heard that you bought a new team of horses lately." John commented as he undid Jeremiah's robe, and listened to his heart and lungs with his stethoscope.

Nodding, Jeremiah looked proud. "A perfectly matched pair of Friesians." He gushed on about his horses as John continued, adjusting the wick on his kerosene lamp to be as bright as possible as he examined Jeremiah's skin.

And there it was. A small red mark. John tilted the young man's palm towards the light, and could see several other fainter ones. Holding his breath, John scanned down his legs and lifted each of his feet in turn. No sign of the rash there.

"I also had a new crest put on each door of the..." Jeremiah's voice trailed off when he caught John's still expression. "Doctor?"

Taking a deep breath, John let it out slowly. This was the hardest part of his job. Pulling up a stool, he sunk down on it heavily, and looked at the man in his early thirties, appearing so vibrant and alive, and wondered how long before the symptoms were more obvious. How long before confusion clouded those clear eyes, and tremors shook those steady hands?

"Jeremiah, who is your regular doctor?" Perhaps, if it was a quack, he could steer the young man to Mike Stamford.

* * *

As soon as Jeremiah was escorted out, John rushed down the hall to knock on an office door. He was relieved when he heard a voice inside bid him to enter.

Miss Donovan had her ledgers spread out over her desk, and looked up at John. She quickly read his expression, and waved him to sit in the chair in front of her desk. "Who is it?" Her voice was resigned, her expression still and tight.

"Jeremiah. He was here about six weeks ago." John had only started working here then.

Nodding, Miss Donovan flipped through a different ledger, her eyes scanning quickly over page after page. "He has only been with Audrey since he started coming here. He was supposed to be with her tonight."

John's mind flashed to the young woman. She was only twenty-six, about five feet tall with dark brown hair. Her best feature was her large, expressive eyes, framed with thick eyelashes and delicately shaped eyebrows.

"What do you normally do in these situations?"

Miss Donovan leaned back in her chair. "Reschedule her clients with other consorts for the next month. Keep up her weekly appointments with you to see if anything shows up."

John shook his head. "The stage he was in, he has likely had it a few months, but it could be as long as a couple years. She was likely exposed."

Miss Donovan could tell John was upset, and rested a hand on his sleeve. "Doctor...John... This is precisely why you are here. The consorts know the dangers of their jobs and we do everything we can to screen the clients to reduce the danger. But it's still there. The clients know it too."

"Miss Donovan..." John started, but had to stop to pull out his handkerchief to dab at his eyes and blow his nose.

Coming around the desk, Miss Donovan sat in the chair next to John. "Call me Sally." She wrapped a comforting arm around his back.

Giving a tight smile at her gesture, John met her warm dark eyes. "As long as you call me John." He suddenly felt so tired. "We should likely make a list of other customers she was with during the last couple months. They need a careful examination."

Standing, Sally urged John to the door. "I'll write it up. You better get back to your office now, John. Other clients are waiting."

John finished up the rest of his shift, almost dreading what else he would find, but there was nothing beyond the normal non-contagious health conditions.

Back in his bedroom, he stripped down to his underwear, and washed thoroughly with the strongest soap he had.

Lying back in his bed, John thought about poor young Audrey and Jeremiah. Quickly their faces were replaced with all the others he had treated over the years. So many soldiers, open sores all over their bodies, secondary infections taking over, fevers, seizures. Standing by, knowing that anything he tried would be futile against these horrible diseases.

He slept poorly, nightmares of his most sickly patients clutching at him, dragging him down, their moans of agony filling his ears.

* * *

"Have you ever used condoms?" John asked, as Claire slipped her robe back on, flipping her long, dark curls over her shoulder.

She gave him a questioning look. "With clients?" She shook her head quickly.

John was surprised at her response. Claire was one of the older consorts, and been in the business for many years. How had she stayed healthy? "Why not?"

She chuckled, hopping off the examination table and walking to his work counter where he had been examining some. She picked one up, rubbing the thin membrane between her fingers. "Clients don't like them and most don't even work." She dropped it with a look of distaste.

John picked up a different one, holding it to her. "How about these new ones made of rubber? They are supposed to be better. You can even wash them out and reuse them."

Claire took it from John, her intelligent eyes scanning over it, and then shaking her head. "It won't work."

Wanting to roll his eyes in frustration, John tried to keep his composure. "Why do you say that?"

Claire grabbed John's hand and rolled the condom down his first two fingers. Before he could ask what she was doing, she put his covered fingers into her mouth.

John was frozen in shock as she sucked and licked at the rubber, moving his hand so his fingers thrust in and out of her mouth. Her eyes were partially shut, and she had a mischievous look in them as she watched John's transfixed state. It was a blatantly erotic sight.

Pulling his hand away, Claire gave him a bit of a wicked smile. "I could tell you liked watching that, Doctor."

Clearing his throat, John tried to go back to normal. "Ah... Yes... Well..." Living and working here, he had kept his relationship strictly professional with the consorts. Not even flirting with them.

"But did you feel anything?" Claire's direct hazel eyes pinned him.

John could feel his cheeks flush slightly. It was still an adjustment working around plain speaking women like this. "Um...feel..."

Huffing impatiently, Claire gestured towards his covered fingers. "Did you feel how hot and warm my mouth was? Feel me sucking on you?"

Her direct words made John look down, feeling uncomfortable. It was easier being the doctor, being in control and being the one asking the questions. "Well, no, I guess not..."

She nodded in satisfaction, putting on her slippers. "See you next week, Doctor."

Looking down at his covered fingers, John removed the condom. The rubber was thick, and would not tear easily. It made them reusable, and thus more affordable. But if it took away most of the sensations of pleasure, John could see why most men would shun them, in spite of the dangers.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Jeremiah is showing symptoms of syphillis, in the second stage. The first stage is often only a single chancre (a firm, painless non-itchy skin ulceration). The second stage has a diffuse rash on the hands and feet usually. In the last stage, non-cancerous tumours, neurological symptoms (dementia, seizures) or heart problems can occur. Before penicillin (1943), the treatment was often mercury, rubbed onto the skin, injected or taken orally. The disease was often called the 'Great Pox' or the 'French Disease'.

-Condoms: Their use goes back hundreds of years, being used as birth control and for control of sexually transmitted disease. They were often made out of animal tissue (bladder or intestine) or chemically treated linen. They were expensive and often of poor quality, with holes or defects, so not very trusted. Rubber condoms started being available around 1855. Latex wasn't invented until 1920, resulting in thinner, stronger condoms and a lower cost due to better manufacturing.


	5. Chapter 5

"John!" Molly called out, waving a hand in front of her scrunched up face.

Pushing his goggles up to his forehead, John turned around to greet her. He pulled down the red bandana that covered his nose and mouth, and gave her an apologetic grin. "Sorry about the smell…I'm heating up some sulphur in this experiment."

Molly strolled into his office, her curious gaze taking in the array of beakers and graduated cylinders, and the large basket full of weeds. She picked up a scraggly leaf, and shook her head at John as she dropped it.

Over the past few weeks, they had gotten closer and closer. It was amazing that he had found such a kindred spirit in a housemaid who had only had a few years of elementary school. He was constantly impressed by how much she had taught herself during her time working in the brothel. They often stayed up late, involved in deep, long discussions about the newest scientific theories and medical treatments. He felt closer to her than he did with his own sister, Harriet.

"John, you better stop this experiment and air everything out. Clients are going to be coming in here in only a few hours." Molly chuckled, unlatching the nearest window and pushing it open wide.

It was a mild, spring day, and John opened the other window. It took a few minutes for the strong smell started to dissipate. He packed away his materials, sighing. "I suppose I should do things like this on our days off."

Molly agreed with him. But an idea occurred to her. Something she wanted to check out before she mentioned it to John. She didn't want to get his hopes up.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson knocked sharply twice on the thick oak door. "Mr. Holmes likes us to knock first before entering."

They stepped through the doorway, and she didn't have to warn John to keep his voice down. Just walking into the large entranceway, he felt like he was invading a private sanctum.

"Mrs. Hudson," John said in barely more than a whisper, "are you sure this is alright?"

She glanced over her shoulder quickly and then beckoned him along a hallway. "It has all been approved. You can be in here on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons until 4 pm." Opening a door at the end, she waved John forward. "Of course, I'm sure I don't need to remind you to respect Mr. Holmes' privacy in the rest of the wing."

John nodded as he stepped inside, the words he was about to utter getting stuck in his throat. The room was long and narrow, with large windows letting in plenty of natural light. Work counters lined each side, with deep shelving above and below packed full of equipment and glass jars. It was the most perfectly designed laboratory John had ever been in.

Mrs. Hudson took in his rapt appreciation with her own satisfied grin. "I was a bit surprised by Molly's request, but I can see she knows you very well now. Enjoy your time here, John. Let me know if you need any materials or equipment." She quickly slipped out of the room, nodding at John's quiet goodbye.

* * *

John chopped the weeds as finely as he could, and added them to the large funnel. Glancing at the Erlenmeyer flask below, he scowled at the small quantity of milky sap that had seeped out of the vegetation. Perhaps there was a better way to extract the fluid.

The grandfather clock in the hallway outside the laboratory rang four times, and John swore. Glancing at the pile of plants he still wanted to process, John paused and listened attentively.

Was the elusive Mr. Holmes even in this wing of the house? Would he even notice if John stayed another hour or so?

The last two times John had come to the lab, he had entered the wing as quietly as he could, bracing himself for a chance encounter with the tall stranger. He had always walked through to his destination quickly, not wanting to be caught lingering or snooping, lest his access to the lab be revoked.

But the longer he was here, the more his curiosity grew. He hadn't seen even a glimpse of the man in weeks, not since the ball he had attended with Mike. His last session he could have sworn he heard a lone violin playing in the distance. It had been hard to tell if the music came from upstairs or from the main part of the house.

Looking at the remainder of the pile of weeds, John set his shoulders and got back to work. It had taken his last two days off to collect it all, hiking far away from manicured gardens and parks. The plants probably wouldn't last until Thursday. Another hour and they would all be choppe. Hopefully when he returned, more fluid would have seeped out, and he could move to the next step.

He was almost done when he heard the clock strike five. Barely ten minutes more had passed when John finished up. He washed his hands, removed his lab coat and hung it on a hook behind the door. He donned his regular suit coat, and paused at the door, listening hard. It was quiet and still as ever.

Heart pounding, John crept slowly down the hall. He only had to cross the wide foyer of the wing to reach the door to the main part of he house. It was a large open space, with a grand staircase sweeping to the upper floor.

His eyes scanned quickly, the landing at the top floor, the foyer, the hallways that fed into it. His ears confirmed that it all seemed empty. Twenty quick steps and he would be out.

The adrenaline rushing through his body reminded him a bit of his army days, and John chuckled at the comparison. Crossing an elegant entranceway bore little resemblance to those sparse landscapes. Should he go directly across the open area, which would be fastest, or edge along the walls to be less visible?

With an internal swear, John shot out across the marble floor, reaching the door quickly. It opened almost silently, much to his relief. It was only as he was carefully shutting the door when he caught a glimpse of a tall figure standing at the top of the stairs.

 _Shit shit shit.._. It must have been Sherlock, Mr. Holmes... John only had a vague impression of a tall figure, and it seemed to fit his body type. The image in his mind also seemed to have a lot of skin showing. Had he been shirtless? Or only wearing a towel around his waist? Heard a noise as he dressed and stepped into the upper hallway to look down?

There was no way for John to know. Perhaps John had been fast enough that Mr. Holmes hadn't seen him long enough to identify him. Or maybe he had thought he was a servant. Maybe it had even slipped his mind that John was using the lab two afternoons a week, or the whole thing was beneath his notice.

As John went to the dining hall for supper, the underlying belief in the pit of his stomach was that it had been Sherlock, and his sharp, observant eyes had caught it all.

* * *

"You should add zinc."

John almost tipped over all his equipment, jumping at the sound of the baritone voice coming from right behind him. Swinging his beaker away from the heat, John turned around.

Sherlock was standing close, far too close, and it made John very aware of the difference in their height. Swallowing down his nerves, John tilted his face slightly to look up and meet his eyes.

Dressed in only a white shirt with no tie or cravat, black trousers, and a paisley-patterned silk robe tied snugly over it all, it was the most casual John had ever seen his employer. His hair was messy curls, like he had woken up and run his hands through them a few times. His eyes were more of a blue shade today in the light of the room, sweeping over John, missing nothing.

"I, um...," John let out a sigh and started again. "Why zinc?" He turned back to his flask, stirring the mixture with a glass rod.

Sherlock stepped up beside him at the workbench, his eyes scanning over John's set-up and nodding. "You have probably used too much sulphur," he wrinkled up his nose slightly at the odor, "but it should still cure pretty well. Zinc oxide will help with that. Act as an accelerant."

John took in the man beside him. This was not The Courtesan, enchanting potential clients at a posh party, or the owner of a brothel. This was a scientist, his tone confident and his fingers experienced as he found a bottle, unscrewing the lid. Carefully measuring out some powder from the container, he arched an eyebrow at John, and dumped the spoonful into the flask when John nodded.

Peering closely, John stirred his heated solution, watching the consistency. It was still a smooth, milky liquid, but slightly thicker than how it had been initially.

"Do you think I need to heat it more?" John dared to ask, flicking a sidelong glance at the tall man.

There was a pause, and finally he spoke again. "Are you looking for a solid, firm result?"

Shaking his head, John did a half-turn towards Sherlock. "No, just for it to be stronger and more stable, less sticky. Still stretchy and flexible though."

With a nod, Sherlock took a step back. "It will take some trial and error. I would let this cool and evaluate it."

Agreeing with the view, John turned off the Bunsen burner and gave the solution another stir. It needed to stay homogenous and smooth.

Pulling a rack of clean test tubes closer, John took one and dipped it into the milky solution, making sure the outside surface was evenly coated, leaving an inch at the top clear. He repeated it with another test tube, and set them upside-down on a drying rack. He glanced at the clock in the hall, noting the time.

Sherlock had been watching him work. "How long before you do more?"

Pulling the thermometer out to check the temperature, John made a note before replacing it. "Each time the temperature drops ten degrees." He had enough tubes to make a dozen samples. It should be a good test of his process.

Sherlock seemed to approve of his methods, as he turned away and moved to another area of the workbench. John had looked at the various experiments in progress only quickly, not really understanding them.

As John continued monitoring his work, and dipping more test tubes, he watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Trying to be subtle, discrete.

The tall man pulled out a stool and dropped onto it, his attention completely absorbed on preparing glass slides and peering at them under a large microscope. He wrote in a notebook often, making quick sketches and point form notes. After about thirty minutes, he moved to another experiment and reviewed everything, fussing around with the various containers and making more notes.

He seemed completely focused; almost unaware that John was even there. If John had only met him like this, he would have labeled him an introvert, a loner. Someone content with their own company. It was quite incongruent that such a man was highly paid for his skills at pleasing people.

John's discrete looks must have devolved into more obvious staring. He jumped when Sherlock's direct gaze caught his, and could feel his cheeks heat as he looked down. He was done dipping the tubes now. He busied himself with washing up the glassware and putting it away.

"You can come back tomorrow afternoon if you want." The deep voice made John pause as he exchanged his lab coat for his suit jacket.

"On a Friday?" John straightened his clothes as he turned to face Sherlock.

Nodding from his perch on the stool, Sherlock gave John a small smile. "I don't mind you being here in the afternoons."

John found his lips curling into a matching smile, and nodded fast before he slipped out the door. That was permission to come any afternoon, wasn't it?

John felt giddy at the possibilities. This would speed up his research, having daily access to the well-equipped lab. He wouldn't have to wait days to check on his test tubes. They might even be ready tomorrow. Excitement coursed through him as he zipped across the main foyer and into the east wing.

He was soon in his own room, changing into his clothes for supper. He would have to let the suit he was wearing before air out a little. It still had a bit of a lingering smell of rotten eggs from the sulphur he had used.

* * *

John rushed through his afternoon appointments, thankful it was a light day, and was soon in the lab, feeling excited and happy. He had hardly slept the night before, thinking of other ways to control the variables of his experiments, and pondering where to harvest more raw materials. It was exhilarating.

The lab was bright with sunshine, but empty. Disappointingly, it seemed like he was the sole occupant of the west wing at present. John pushed the thought aside and focused on his work.

Touching the test tubes lightly, it seemed the white film had set overnight. Working carefully, he picked at the coating, trying to get it off in one piece. Out of a dozen test tubes, he ended up with five torn samples. He laid out the rest on a clean cloth, admiring his handiwork.

A chuckle from his right made John glance that way. Sherlock was far too quiet. This was the second time he seemed to just appear like magic at his side.

"What is all this then? Are we getting the seven dwarves tonight as clients?" Sherlock's eyes seemed to almost glow with mirth.

Looking down, John got his meaning and joined in his laughter. The condoms were barely wide enough to fit over his finger. "They are prototypes!" John said in their defense, still chuckling.

"Hmmm...perhaps I should order you some larger test tubes." Sherlock said, trying to keep a straight face.

John smirked. "Um...ah...how big do they make them?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "How big do you _want_ them?" He picked up one condom, eyeing it critically.

Trying hard to keep from laughing, John looked Sherlock up and down. "I'll consult with the expert in the room. What is the average size...?"

There was a twinkle in Sherlock's eyes, clearly amused. He shrugged. "You see more of them than I do! You have twenty clients a night. I only have one."

John couldn't hold back anymore, laughter bursting out at that comment. "Maybe...but I don't see them...ah, 'ready for action'..."

"Fine, fine...I'll concede to your point and order test tubes for you in an appropriate size." Sherlock held up his hands in surrender.

John opened his notebook, getting ready to examine the samples to see if the temperature made any difference in the end result.

Sherlock was still standing there, toying with one of the torn ones. "You know, you really should try them out."

Arching an eyebrow, John gave Sherlock his most unimpressed look. "I know I'm smaller than many men, but I'm not 'small' everywhere."

Sherlock's eyes went pointedly from the mini condoms to John's crotch, a bit of a smirk on his full lips. John could tell he was only doing it to get a rise out of him, bugging him.

"I only meant you should try to replicate the conditions the condoms would be used in to ensure they perform well. Expose them to moisture, heat, and ...um... friction." Sherlock's teasing tone was gone now, as he waved his hands expressively.

The words brought up vivid images of the last time John had been with a partner, months ago. There had been a widowed nurse, someone he worked with a lot, and flirted with occasionally. They had reached for each other sometimes, nights when they didn't want to be alone. Friends seeking physical closeness, but knowing they didn't share a romantic connection.

The sex with her had been enthusiastic and athletic. She was not shy about climbing on top of John and riding him hard, and he had loved seeing her seeking her own pleasure that way.

Blushing slightly, John could feel Sherlock's attention on him, and wondered how much of his thoughts he had revealed. "Um...yes. I see what you are saying there."

He gathered up all the condoms on the cloth, and shoved them into his satchel with his notebook. Suddenly, he just needed some space. Some air.

"Thank you, ...ah... Mr. Holmes. I will work on that. Good day for now." He rushed out of the lab, still in his long, white lab coat.

* * *

He ended up in his office, dropping the satchel on his small workbench and sitting on a stool. Running a hand through his hair, John sighed as he thought over the afternoon.

 _Oh My God..._ Had he actually been joking about penis size with his boss? It had been funny in the moment, but John now worried that he had gone too far with it. Possibly offended the man he barely knew. John groaned as he recalled it all.

It was easy to get mixed up and forget what reality was, living here. So many dictates of regular Victorian society, polite society, were disregarded in this house.

People came to this house looking for sex without judgment. John saw the consorts and clients, treating the extramarital sex they were involved in as a normal thing, just talking about it openly. Focusing on reducing the risk of the dangerous activity they all indulged in. Keeping them healthy. Morality and ethical questions were not raised.

Other things were different in the house than the world outside the gates. There was surprisingly little hierarchy among all the staff, with almost everyone just using each other's first names. It was assumed that everyone working there was a mature adult, and would do their role well, doing their part. There was mutual respect. The maids and stable boys felt comfortable sitting with anyone in the dining hall. Everyone had equal access to the grounds, equal opportunities for education and advancement.

In his long conversations with Molly, John had marveled at how things ran in the house. Trying to get it all straight in his mind.

He noticed that the staff called the managers by their more formal titles, Miss Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Lestrade, and Mr. Holmes, likely as a gesture of respect. Also, the consorts were friendly with everyone but were afforded their share of respect as well. Their personal rooms on the second floor of the east wing were slightly larger and more luxurious than the rest of the staff. They also had their own common room. But as they brought in the income that kept the house in business, the other staff felt it was justified.

Perhaps John had gotten too comfortable with the relaxed attitudes of the house. He had enjoyed his work in the lab so much, and lately being around Sherlock...Mr. Holmes, more. He would have to work harder to keep Mr. Holmes' position in mind when they worked together in the lab. Be respectful, follow his lead. He wanted to keep things as they were. A good job, a great place to live, access to the fantastic library and the laboratory...he didn't want to screw things up now.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing,

A/N: Thanks so much for reading this fic up to here. I love seeing the favs, follows and reviews. I appreciate that you have been patient as I set up this world, and things will really be taking off with Sherlock after this.

Warning: I have been posting daily, as I had mostly-done drafts of these chapters written. Going forward, I'll probably be posting a couple times a week as I write the rest.

-DIY Condoms: So, the experiment John is working on is making condoms from dandelions. Ever break a stem and notice the milky sap inside? It contains latex, as do many plants around the world. Today, about half the rubber in the world comes from 'natural rubber', mostly from Pará rubber trees (Hevea brasiliensis) which grow in sub-tropical climates, and the other half is synthesized from petroleum. John didn't have access to a rubber tree, so he is playing around with what is available. Sulphur is added to latex in the vulcanization (heating) process to make it into a more stable compound, by forming bonds between the long strands of the molecules. Lately, there has been increased research around Russian dandelions being grown for latex and it has been successfully used in car tires.


	6. Chapter 6

John felt a bit out of sorts the next day. Maybe he hadn't slept well. Maybe he had inhaled too many odd fumes in the lab. Maybe he just needed a break.

After breakfast, he sat in his office, reading over his experiment notes, looking at his prototypes. But his focus just wasn't there. Sighing, he wrapped one of the torn samples in his handkerchief, and shoved it into his pocket.

When his afternoon appointments were done, he didn't feel like returning to the lab. Instead he found himself in the library.

Molly was already at their normal table. "John, it's good to have you back."

Greeting her at he sat down, John realized he hadn't been there for a week. He had been busy collecting dandelions, and working in the lab. Funny how it had taken over his life like that. Maybe it was good he wasn't going there today. A day away would be good.

"So, what dry tome are you deep into now? Aristotle's Masterpiece?" John ducked his head to try to see the cover of the book she held.

Giving him a fond look, she tilted it up.

"'Great Expectations'? I didn't think you would read anything as frivolous as fiction." John was a little surprised at the book.

Lowering the open book to the table, Molly stroked a hand gently over the page. "Hardly. I grew to love reading because of Dickens." Her large brown eyes met John's. "We didn't have much money, growing up. When my mother died, I had to stay home to take care of the younger ones. But I always saved up to buy the latest chapter of his stories, and read them again and again."

John smiled in understanding. "My favorite is 'A Tale of Two Cities'. _It was the best of times, it was the worst of times_." How often had those words run true in his own life.

" _Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show_." Molly quoted back. "David Copperfield."

He wasn't as familiar with that novel. "Why Copperfield?"

"I always related to it, and later read an interview where Dickens said it was the most autobiographical to his own life, that it was his favorite. Dickens also revealed things about his own life in that interview...that his father was put in a debtors prison and Charles had very little formal education." Molly glanced down. "His family struggled like mine did."

Reaching across the table, John gave her hand a squeeze. Although his upbringing hadn't been easy, it hadn't been as bad as hers. He had managed to get a good education, and a career.

They went on to discuss their other favorite authors; Hugo, Austen, the Brontës, Melville, and Dostoyevsky. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein sparked a friendly debate that lasted until the end of dinner.

* * *

"This is what you have been working on so hard?" Mike chuckled, holding the piece of torn film and giving John a puzzled look.

Snatching it back, John glared at his friend playfully. "It took days to produce that! Have some respect."

"Why are you reinventing the wheel? Rubber prophylactics are already available." Mike took a sip of his whiskey, savoring the aged liquor.

John sipped his as well, but wasn't that fond of it. It must be an acquired taste. He hadn't spent time hobnobbing in private men's clubs like this much.

John looked down at his sample. "I'm trying to make a formulation that is strong and stretchy, but thinner."

"Thinner!" Mike shook his head. "Surely the chance of breakage would be more of a factor then."

Shrugging, John stood his ground. "The devices are of no use to anyone if no one uses them. The experts I work with advised me the thick ones reduce sensation too much."

Mike seemed to agree with his point. He waved at John's hand. "So, you are working on your process?"

John nodded. "I don't know if it will ever come to anything, but I'm enjoying the lab work. Once I have more samples, I'll work on how to test them."

"Aren't you quite the little scholar! Three Continents Watson is sure settling down. I wouldn't be surprised if you announced getting engaged to some nice girl next."

John almost choked on his whiskey at that comment. "Nice girl? I work in a glorified whorehouse!"

Mike tilted his head a bit, scrutinizing his friend until John squirmed under his gaze. "You know, you've mentioned that Molly girl a few times. You seem to really like her."

"Molly! She's sweet and smart...but I really see her as more of a sister than anything, Mike." John shook his head. Sheesh, married people were always trying to hook single people up.

Mike gave a knowing grin that was quite irritating, really. "You said she is young. Is she pretty?"

Rolling his eyes, John met his friend's eyes directly. "Yes. Slim, with dark hair and eyes. A nice smile."

"Hmmm..." The insufferable git looked far too pleased with himself. "I think you should invite this pretty Molly with the nice smile to lunch with me and the missus. Next weekend, perhaps?"

"No." Give him an inch, he'd take a mile.

"Come on, what could a simple lunch hurt? She's a friend of yours and I want to know your friends." Mike cajoled.

John kept turning Mike's offers down firmly. But as he headed back home, he considered it. He was really getting to the age he should settle down, and have children, if he was ever going to do it.

Molly was a very kind-hearted woman. Attractive, with a good sense of humor. She understood his work, the whole situation. And she was a pleasure to spend time with. Physically, he had never really felt a spark with her. But didn't that fade in most marriages anyways? Wasn't it better to choose a partner you could get along with? She came from humble beginnings as well, and would likely be quite content with the type of lifestyle a simple doctor could provide. Maybe in a few months, he would have a good nest egg saved.

* * *

After being away a couple days, it felt a little odd to be back in the lab. It was so quiet, John was a little surprised to see Sherlock working at his microscope. He seemed to be concentrating intensely, so John let him be.

Exchanging his coat for his lab coat, John spotted a box in his work area. Opening it and moving the packaging aside, he pulled out the test tube on top.

It was massive.

Wrapping his hand around it, his fingers almost didn't touch. It must have been ten inches long, at least.

 _This is average?_

Hearing a stifled chuckle, John whirled around to face Sherlock. His eyes were glowing with amusement.

"Are we going to be making condoms for the horses as well?" John asked drily, looking unimpressed.

Standing up, Sherlock sauntered closer, chuckles he was trying to hold in escaping occasionally at the sight of an irked John holding the massive test tube.

"John, John...," he splayed his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture, "I also got you a box in the average size. But the average will only fit about half the men. What if there's a client in the 90th percentile? Shouldn't we be prepared?"

John set the tube back in the box, and looked around until he saw another box tucked on the shelf below. It had test tubes of a reasonable size, and John's shoulders relaxed.

"In all your years in the business, have you ever had a client like that?" John waved towards the large tube.

Sherlock leaned against the counter near John, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth as he tried to keep a straight face. He shook his head.

Huffing, John closed the box and found a place for it on the lower shelf. "I thought so. These last few months, I have seen a fair number of patients in a tumescent state, likely just excited for their pending appointment with a consort. And they were all close to average size."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side a bit, looking down at John with a knowing glint in his eye. It said Sherlock knew something John didn't.

"What? What great idea is running through that superior mind of yours?" John challenged.

Glancing over John, taking a long, slow perusal over his suit, the lab coat, John's face, and his neatly trimmed hair, Sherlock's gaze ended on his strong hands. "It might not be the consort appointment putting them in that state. It could be the handsome doctor in his suit and lab coat, running his hands all over their bodies during the examination."

"I'm not touching them everywhere! I just perform a normal examination. You make it sound sordid." John sputtered, shocked at the idea.

Sherlock grinned a little. "The fact that you act professional and distant can be a factor in a medical fetish. They are getting aroused by it, and are trying not to. Feeling ashamed, a little dirty." His voice had dropped slightly, with a rougher edge to it.

John looked away, fidgeting with the box. "Surely that type of thing is rare."

Chuckling openly now, Sherlock shook his head. "I'll bet most of the consorts have some medical gear in their closet."

"Gear?" John leaned back against the workbench. When had Sherlock moved so close? John could smell him, a fresh-washed scent, maybe sandalwood soap.

Sherlock spun around; his silk robe swirling with the motion. It wasn't belted today, hanging loosely around him. His white dress shirt was closely fitted, the top few buttons undone, making his neck look quite long. Pale, bare skin showing where most men covered up, wearing buttoned up shirts and elaborate ties and cravats. He seemed perfectly at ease dressed so casually, in his own wing of the house.

Sitting down in his work stool, Sherlock leaned back against the workbench, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Have you never been to the top floor of the main house?"

John shook his head. This conversation was veering all over the place, but he couldn't deny his interest in it.

"It is has all the bedrooms the consorts see their clients in. Decorated by each to suit their persona. Large closets full of clothing to be the most tempting to their clients. Dressers with drawers full of tools of their trade." Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving John's.

John swallowed hard. "Um... And you have a bedroom up there too?"

Sherlock laughed. "Of course. I don't allow clients into my wing of the house. I have the largest bedroom, at the top of the stairs. There are ten bedrooms on each side for the other consorts."

John looked down, his gaze on the equipment of his workspace. They had spent so much time together in this lab in the last few days, Sherlock acting like a regular, friendly man. Teasing and offering advice. His manner always relaxed and seeming very natural. Sometimes, it was hard to imagine Sherlock in his consort role, seducing his clients.

Glancing back at Sherlock, John couldn't deny he was an attractive man. He was slim, but moved with athletic grace. His dark curls contrasted well with his fair skin and light-colored eyes. His mind was sharp, and his laughter infectious.

Nodding his head, John turned back to his work. He just needed to do something normal for a while. At times, he was struck by the fact he was working in a brothel, his coworkers talking on like it was perfectly normal to discuss having a bedroom for seeing clients in.

He didn't have any dandelions and sighed at the thought of collecting more. He had already exhausted the areas close to the house, and even with how quickly the weeds sprang up, he doubted there would be any large enough to gather in those areas for another week or two. He would have to take a horse, maybe on his next day off, and explore some new places further away.

Looking at his prototypes, John decided to try some testing methods on them. Feeling a bit embarrassed, John glanced over at Sherlock. He was deeply involved in his own work, stirring a large beaker suspended over an open flame. Bringing a condom to his mouth, John held it firmly and blew into it. It inflated easily, and John kept expanding it until it seemed near its limit. Letting out a little air, John tied the end closed.

The inflated condom was easily four times its original size. Taking out a tape measure, John recorded its dimensions in his notebook. He repeated the process with another condom. This one didn't inflate as easily, maybe due to being a little thicker.

Next, he went to the washbasin and poured the water from the pitcher into a condom. It spilled into the basin a lot, so John paused to fetch a small funnel. He was able to fill the condom well then, until it held several cups of water. Pleased, he tied the end closed and repeated it with another condom.

Drying them off, he carried the full condoms to a scale and took careful notes of their weight.

John looked at his work in satisfaction. He could check the condoms daily for a week or so, seeing if the water condoms became lighter due to leaks or evaporation through the film. Measure the air condoms to see if they shrunk due to air escaping.

Something flashed in the corner of his eye, and John instinctually glanced up. Before he knew it, he was on his feet and at Sherlock's side.

"Your robe is on fire!" John said fast, looking around for a way to deal with the flame dancing up the thin fabric of his sleeve. In his hand was one of the water condoms he had been holding, and without considering it further, John smashed the distended orb against Sherlock's arm. Water burst everywhere, soaking the side of his body.

Yanking on the collar of the robe as Sherlock stood, stumbling away, John dropped the sodden mess to the floor, stamping on it until he was satisfied the water had soaked into the remaining fabric and the fire was out.

They both gazed down at the floor, chests heaving. The whole thing had happened in just seconds. John looked at Sherlock, his shirt mostly wet as well. "Sit down. I need to check if you got burned."

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said dismissively.

With firm hands, John steered the taller man to the stool, and pushed him onto it. His hands fumbled, trying to unbutton Sherlock's wet shirt, but he eventually pulled it back. He examined Sherlock's side and his arm, only seeing a slight redness to his fair skin.

Sherlock snatched his arm away when John skimmed his fingers over it, hissing in pain.

"Let's get a cold wet cloth on that, keep it from blistering. Draw out the heat."

There wasn't anything suitable at the washbasin, and John didn't trust the cleanliness of the cloths in the lab. Who knew what Sherlock might have used them for?

Without questioning his actions, John went down the hall and found the washroom. He found a clean cloth and wet it thoroughly, and on the way back saw a blanket draped over a chair. He carried both to the lab.

John had Sherlock hold the cold compress against his arm, and wrapped the blanket around him. It wasn't a bad injury, but shock could set in. Plus, half-naked, it was obvious that Sherlock didn't have any extra padding to keep him warm.

Wringing out the robe, John put it into the garbage and tidied things away. He turned off the Bunsen burner. Sherlock quietly watched John's actions.

"Um...Mr. Holmes...perhaps it would be best if you rested for the remainder of the day. Maybe have an early night. I'd like it if Dr. Stamford could check your burn in a couple days. Make sure it is healing well." John met Sherlock's eyes, hoping he would follow the directions. Take care of himself properly.

Sherlock gave him a long look. "OK, I'll have it looked at in a couple days, as long as you do it. And you call me Sherlock going forward."

John shook his head. "It's not appropriate. You're my boss."

Rolling his eyes at the comments, Sherlock sighed heavily. "Fine, would it satisfy your Victorian sense of propriety if you call me Mr. Holmes when we are around others? It seems stupid to have such formalities here, when it's just us. You just stripped off half my clothes not that long ago, after all."

John's lips curled up in a half-smile. "OK then, Sherlock." It felt good to call him by his first name. "Well, I'm going to get some supper…"

As John stood up, his leg unexpectedly gave out. It happened so fast; he didn't have time to grab hold of the work counter.

He was saved from falling to the floor by Sherlock's arms coming around him. As he looked up at him, a wave of dizziness came over John, pulling him under.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Oh no... a cliff-hanger! I'll update soon, promise.

-Fun Facts:

\- Aristotle's Masterpiece: This book was first published in 1684, written by an unknown author falsely claiming to be Aristotle. It was a sex manual and midwifery book, and was probably the most widely reprinted book on a medical subject in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century.

-Charles Dickens: (1812-1870) Considered the greatest novelist of the Victorian era, he left school when his father was sent to debtor's prison. Despite his shortened education, he edited a weekly journal for 20 years, wrote 15 novels, 5 novellas and hundreds of shorter pieces. In this time of Britain's greatest power, he didn't shy away from demonstrating social injustice in his novels, and had a big impact on changing public opinion. His novels were published in monthly or weekly instalments, popularizing the serial publication of narrative fiction, which became the dominant way it was done during that era. Masses of illiterate poor chipped in ha'pennies to have the monthly instalment read to them, opening up a new class of readers.

This reminds me a bit of fanfiction...how stories are made available chapter by chapter usually. Often the writers are influenced by comments from the readers, and this was the case with Dickens as well.


	7. Chapter 7

The room seemed to swirl, the odor overwhelming.

"Please...," John moaned, "I'm going to be sick..."

He heard a muttered curse, and a basin was thrust into his hands. He bent over it, wracked with a violent episode as comforting hands supported him,

Weak, his heart still pounding so fast, John slid to the floor. The odor was still there, still there, and his stomach was rolling again.

Pushing himself up, John tore at the buttons of his shirt. "Need this off...it smells too much..."

The hands were there again, pulling his clothes away, until he was bare chested. It felt better, his chest less constricted too...

The hands were back, stroking over his hair, but the odor was there too. John shifted away, but his body was already reacting, retching dryly.

John faded out, and had the sensation of being moved. It took too much to stay alert.

* * *

"Can you try sitting up for me, John?" A familiar voice said, cajolingly.

Still groggy, John opened his eyes slowly. Mike, a friendly, encouraging smile on his face, but worry in his eyes.

"Um...yeah..." John managed, and pushed himself to sit up. He was on a plush sofa, mounds of pillows and blankets surrounding him.

His friend examined him, seeing the marks his previous life had left on him, but not commenting. His hands brushed over the shoulder scar, but it didn't ache anymore.

Finishing, Mike pulled up a chair to face John. "What happened, John?"

Running a hand through his hair, John shook his head. "Something, something...I don't know. I was fine, and then my leg stopped working. It just got worse from there. I couldn't breathe, got sick, passed out, I guess."

"Medically, you are fine. A little dehydrated. You need some good food and rest." Mike clapped a hand gently on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Has this happened before? Things like this?"

Feeling ashamed, John dipped his head and nodded. "When I was recovering from the shoulder. I started having terrible nightmares, heart pounding until I felt dizzy. Then my leg acted up. No medical reason for it." John frowned. "I thought I had beat this."

His friend rested a comforting hand on the back of John's neck. "You aren't the first soldier who has come back home with these symptoms. There is no doubt you saw horrific things, were in terrible conditions. Sometimes, it's your mind shutting down your body, forcing you to take a break. It is in danger of being overwhelmed."

John scoffed, rubbing a weary hand over his face. "So, limping around to somehow save my sanity?" It seemed ridiculous, but it made some sense. After so many years on the battlefield, John had thought he had seen it all. Been hardened to it all. But maybe he had finally just reached the limit of what he could handle.

"Why would it all come back now?" John felt weak, broken. Useless.

Mike gave him an understanding look. "The mind is a powerful thing. It is trying to protect you from danger. Maybe something yesterday seemed similar to something in the past."

Closing his eyes, John tried to remember everything from the previous afternoon. It had all happened so fast, was such a jumble in his head. Joking around with Sherlock, working on his project...that was all normal. The fire and dealing with it all without even thinking. Just taking care of it, taking care of Sherlock. But then the rush of his body's delayed reaction. Heart pounding, feeling faint, the strong smell of the burnt silk everywhere, making him feel sick, his leg giving out...crashing.

"I think it was the fire, and the smell of the burnt silk. It doesn't smell like wood burning...more like hair burning." John knew now what had triggered it all, and took some deep breaths to calm down.

Mike looked brighter at that comment. "Oh, that makes sense. Sherlock said you kept complaining about the smell, and vomiting. You only settled down after Mrs. Hudson got you into a bath, and into clean clothes."

Now that Mike mentioned it, John had some fleeting memories of that. "I'd like to go back to work, keep busy."

Mike shook his head. "Not today. I'll be covering your client examinations tonight and the afternoon appointments are all rescheduled. Today, you are going to rest in front of a big fire and eat some good food. Get your strength back."

John knew it was pointless arguing, and did feel weak. Tomorrow was soon enough to work again. "Can you have someone fetch my cane from my bedroom? It's in the wardrobe, tucked in the back." He hadn't used it for months, but he didn't trust his leg right now.

Mike nodded, his gaze fond. "Great, now I'm going to go flirt with every woman in the house, and see if I can find your Molly somewhere."

Groaning, John waved his teasing friend away, and sunk back into his blankets.

* * *

A mouth-watering smell roused John from his deep nap, and he stretched as he pushed the blankets away.

"Oh good, you are awake." Sherlock peered down at John, his face showing relief, but looking a little tired. "Mrs. Hudson just brought in a tray of your favorite foods to tempt you. Scotch broth, fresh bread, cheese, some dessert full of apples."

John gave a pleased smile at the huge amount of food. "Mmmm... There is so much, though. Please eat with me."

Sherlock nodded, pulling a chair close. He was dressed in a turquoise robe over his clothes, and it made his eyes look more aqua.

It felt odd to have Sherlock serving him, passing him a plate of food and tea. They ate in companionable silence. John was relieved that he felt hungry, no signs of the earlier nausea.

Sherlock cleared away the dishes, setting them back on a cart near the main door. He returned, flopping down onto a large armchair.

Feeling pleasantly full, another need became pressing. "Um...Sherlock," John still felt a bit uncomfortable addressing him that way, "did anyone bring my cane? Mike was going to ask someone."

Shaking his head, Sherlock's keen gaze soon deduced John's need. "Come, I will help you."

It was embarrassing, having Sherlock hoist him onto his good leg, arms around his waist. His bad leg wouldn't bear any weight, so John had to resort to a bit of a hopping motion.

"John, I could carry you." Sherlock said softly as he took in John's struggle.

Biting his lip, John shook his head. "I can manage. Plus I probably outweigh you."

Sherlock scoffed quietly. "I carried you from the lab to the sofa last night."

Flushing at that, John was glad they had reached the washroom door. "I can handle it in here."

After taking care of his need, John washed his hands and splashed his face. The mirror showed he looked quite tired, his eyes duller than normal. He was wearing men's pajamas with the pant hem rolled up a few times. Were they Sherlock's?

They shuffled back to the sofa, and John sunk gratefully back into his cozy nest. The elegant sofa had beautifully engraved walnut legs and trim, and the upholstery was a light blue silk. It was larger than normal, both in length and width, making it very comfortable as a makeshift bed. The fireplace nearby helped keep it warm.

He felt tired, but doubted he could nap again so soon. Maybe he could ask Sherlock for a book to read, something light.

Sherlock had been hovering nearby, watching as John settled back on the sofa and arranged the blankets around himself.

Disappearing for a few minutes, he returned carrying a violin. "How about I play for you? Just lie back and maybe you will drift off again."

John smiled, and reclined against the sloped arm of the sofa. Good food, warm fire, calming music...he was being treated like a king and was determined to relax and enjoy it.

Standing tall, Sherlock lifted the violin into place, and drew his bow across the strings. It was not peaceful or serene. Minor chords poked out at strange angles, feeling almost wrong, out of place. Strident, almost too much. But then the music softened to sweep you along with only occasional minor chords to keep you from getting too comfortable.

It was sweet yet sorrowful, the minor chords when he played two strings at once softened by his vibrato. The Bach partita was full and rich, needing no other instruments for accompaniment.

The piece was mercurial. Ranging from sweet and soft, shifting to fast and complex, almost overwhelming. Yearning and sorrowful, then playful. Difficult and showy, then slow, gentle runs of notes. Unrelenting. Intense.

It was over fifteen minutes long, and Sherlock played with unwavering focus. Never hesitating. Unabashed in the expressiveness of the music. He played it true, played it right. A complete range of emotions flowed from that violin, brought out by his skillful hands.

John was transfixed, the music washing over him. It was beautiful and complex, fast. He wanted to slow it down to savor the flutter of notes.

Sherlock was lost in the music, swaying from foot to foot, sometimes dipping to the left as he arched over his instrument to play the lower strings. Then straightening, almost leaning back and to the right with a slow, higher section. He was in the music, the music was him. No separation.

Where had such skill come from? Surely this was the result of years of intense study. Had Sherlock studied as a boy, in India?

The music transitioned to a slower sonata, and John drifted off not much later.

* * *

Around tea time, he had another visitor, Molly.

"I know it's hard for you to get to the library now, so I thought I'd bring it to you." She said shyly.

John waved her to a nearby chair, giving her a grateful smile. "You know me well."

His smile grew even broader when she passed him his cane. "Ta. Please, help yourself to tea and cake."

She did so, sitting near the fire and looking around. "I've never been in this wing before. Sherlock only allows certain staff in here."

John nodded. He had used his time on the sofa to look around, getting a feel for how Sherlock lived. It was elegant, everything made with fine materials and skilled craftsmanship, but comfortable. Like the sofa, surely designed so Sherlock could lie on it lengthwise, accommodating his six-foot height. The arms were padded, sloping outwards in a perfect reclining angle. Bookshelves were stacked full. It all looked lived in, with a blanket casually draped over a wingback chair near the fire and a book on the table nearby, ready for Sherlock to resume his reading at any minute.

Also interesting was the wide variety of art. Framed antique maps of far off places hung on the walls, with paintings of exotic vistas. Wood and bronze figures were tucked into shelves or on side tables, and John was fairly certain they were Hindu deities. Some supported multiple arms or an elephant head.

It was also very colorful, the walls a peach-orange shade that complimented the dark-stained woodwork. Silk area rugs had elaborate colorful designs, and John recognized them as Persian, and of the highest quality. Overall, it felt like a colonial home in a tropical country. Exotic, with touches of British culture mixed in.

"What do you think of it?" John smiled at his friend, eager to see what she would say. She was well read, but had never travelled outside of London.

She looked around, her eyes falling on the strange and wonderful jumble. "It is very Sherlock. I like it."

John nodded in agreement of her assessment. Like with everything, Sherlock did as he pleased. Never one to conform to societal dictates.

Molly opened up her book. "I brought some Edgar Allan Poe. Some good creepy stories to keep you amused."

Chuckling, John reclined back with his tea as she read 'The Masque of the Red Death'. She was quite expressive, and he enjoyed getting into the tale.

"John, we will be having a few guests at supper..." Sherlock strode into the room, stopping quickly when he saw that he had interrupted them. "Oh, you have company."

"Ah...It's quite alright, Mr. Holmes." Molly blinked fast, her cheeks flushing slightly as she gazed up at Sherlock.

Smirking to himself, John looked between the maid and Sherlock. He must have been working in the lab again, as his hair was sticking up like he had been running his hands through it. There was a smudge of something dark on his chin. He had no robe on now, just wearing his shirt with the top buttons undone and his fitted trousers. Perhaps he had learned from the fire yesterday, and had taken off the robe while working in the lab.

Molly seemed to have no objections to his mad scientist appearance, her eyes admiring as they drank him in.

Sherlock looked a little uncomfortable. "Oh, Miss Hooper. You can join us for dinner too, if you like."

"Oh no. I'll be going as soon as we finish this story. But thanks for the offer." She dipped her face down shyly, reminding John how she had been when he had first met her.

He tried to think of something he could ask her, to show her knowledge, but nothing was popping into his mind. Sherlock had swirled away, leaving them with a nod of his head.

"Mr. Holmes seems to be quite friendly with you." Molly said, her gaze still on the hall where Sherlock had disappeared.

John shrugged. "Yes, I guess I consider us friends now. He's a good bloke."

Her smile was sweet, and John chuckled to himself. The virgin maid and the bisexual consort. But the heart wants what it wants. Who was he to interfere with her crush?

* * *

"No!" John laughed, as he scrambled to cover his wine glass with his hand. "I can hardly even walk with a cane right now. I don't need to be more unstable, thanks."

'Just Call Me' Greg tossed a smirk at him, and continued topping up the other glasses. John shook his head as he looked around the table at the various states of inebriation the other diners showed. Mrs. Hudson was giggling like a ten-year-old with Sally over some joke, and Sherlock tried to eat a forkful of rice, and ended up spilling it down the open V of his shirt. Greg seemed to be handling his wine the best.

Turning his wine glass upside-down, John finished the last few bites of his meal. "Are your dinner meetings always like this?"

Greg shook his head. "No, no…usually we talk about the house business during the salad and soup courses. Get it over with before we open the second bottle of wine."

"Well, I'm sorry my presence here threw off your routine." John had offered to go and eat in the dining hall with the rest of the staff, but the senior staff had insisted he stay. It had been a good meal, and he had enjoyed seeing the easy camaraderie between them. It was obvious they had worked together a long time, growing the business to where it was now.

Sherlock held up a finger, tilting his head up. "Well, this is a meeting for the senior staff only. Top secret business, you know." He swiveled his head to look at Greg, Sally and Mrs. Hudson in turn. "How about we hold a vote? All in favor of having John a part of the senior staff say 'Aye'."

All four of them grabbed their wine glasses, and held them in the air, with a firm 'Aye!' Then they drained their glasses.

John couldn't help but laugh. "You are all managers though. What am I manager of?"

"Germs?" Sherlock suggested.

Sally leaned against him, chuckling. "You have a staff of one. You."

Mrs. Hudson leaned against his other side. "And you have years of experience managing that staff."

"Mrs. Hudson!" John laughed as he gave her a shocked look. She was surprisingly saucy when she had a few drinks.

"I just meant that you've been on your own a lot." She shook her head, straightening up.

"Perfecting his staff management techniques." Greg joined in.

"Sometimes several times a day…." Sally quipped, looking quite pleased with herself.

Sherlock was joining in on the laughter of his friends. "Well, the poor boy was far, far away from home. No English roses to shower his attentions on. What choice did he have but a little staff management?"

"I've heard in situations where large groups of men are stuck together for long periods of times, sometimes they make arrangements to share staff management duties." Greg added, sliding a glance John's way.

Shaking his head slowly, Sherlock tried to look serious. "Alas, that is not John's way. Although he is not against others partaking in such activities."

"Enough! Enough!" John held up his hands in surrender. "Does being part of the senior staff mean that I have to be teased relentlessly every meeting? If so, I don't think I'm interested."

Mrs. Hudson reached over and patted his forearm. "Oh no, dear, it's not like that at all."

Sally shook her head. "No, it kind of rotates. Next meeting, it's Greg's turn."

This started a ten-minute debate over whose turn it was next. John simply sat back and enjoyed his chocolate cake.

"There is some urgent senior staff business we need to discuss before next week." Sally finally broke through the playful bickering. "Sidra will probably be leaving us soon. Should we fill her position with a woman or a man? There are good candidates either way."

"Why is she leaving?" This was news to John. She was one of the most exotic-looking consorts, with huge dark eyes, long black hair and darker skin.

Sherlock gave John a puzzled look. "You didn't notice how she acts at the balls?"

John thought back to the last one, a few weeks ago. "She danced with quite a few men, never seeming to favor one more than any of the others." She had looked lovely, in a purple dress that made the most of her hourglass figure, and hadn't lacked for male admirers.

"Exactly!" Sherlock nodded in approval, taking another sip of wine.

Sighing, John looked at the other three for an explanation. Was it so obvious to them as well?

Sally took pity on him. "Sidra has been chased by many men over the years, but lately she's showing signs she wouldn't mind getting caught. By Sir Edmund Fitzgerald."

Edmund was a fairly frequent visitor to the house, at least twice a month. John found him to be personable and genuine, during his quick medical checks. Picturing the tall, sporty man with the exotic beauty just seemed to fit. But she hadn't even danced with him once at the last ball. He had left fairly early.

"He doesn't get it." Mrs. Hudson shared a laughing glance with Sally, before turning to John. "A man like Sir Edmund could have his choice of women to marry. He is wealthy and handsome. He has been perfectly happy to live the bachelor lifestyle, but he's getting older. Finally starting to realize it's time to settle down."

John nodded, following along. "And…."

Sally rolled her eyes. "A man like that won't consider marrying a consort as an option. He would face the disapproval of most of polite society, maybe lose connections by being with her."

"Yes… and…" John prompted.

"He has to want her badly enough to consider dealing with all that. So, she's showing him how much other men want her, limiting his contact with her…" Mrs. Hudson explained.

"Because the harder it is to get something, the more you want it." Greg finished, lifting his glass. The other senior staff clicked their glasses against his, and they downed their drinks.

Chuckling, Sally stood up, only wobbling a little. "Well, it's been fun. I'll send you all a list of the candidates. Time for work."

Greg and Mrs. Hudson joined her, saying their goodbyes as they headed out the door.

"What about you?" John looked at Sherlock, his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand.

Sherlock scoffed, standing up and almost tripping. "I have ages before I have to go to work. Come on, entertain me."

Ignoring the oversized drunk brat, John got up, using his cane to get to the washroom. His symptoms had faded over the course of the day, and his leg was bearing his weight better. He was relieved at being able to move around on his own, even if it wasn't without the cane yet. By the time he got back to the living room, he sunk down on the sofa, feeling tired.

Stretching out lengthwise, John reclined back, a thick blanket covering him. This was really a great sofa. Would Sherlock notice if John had it moved to his office?

"You look all comfy on there." Sherlock pouted. "Shift over."

"Hey! Watch it!" John sat up, pushing at the large man about to sit on him. Sherlock swung his long legs up on the sofa to lie down, almost kicking John in the face in the process. They ended up lying side by side on the wide sofa, their heads at opposite ends.

Sherlock pulled on the blanket until it was over him as well. "There, that's better." He looked quite pleased with himself.

A week ago, John would have never thought he would be sharing a blanket and a sofa with his boss. But this was hardly the weirdest thing that had happened in the last 24 hours, so John let it go.

"Sherlock… that thing that Greg said at the end. Do you think it's true?"

"Hmmmm….?" Sherlock moved a pillow behind his head to prop it up to a better angle to look at John. "Oh, the hard-to-get thing? Absolutely."

John chuckled at the certainty in his tone. "How can you be so sure?"

Sherlock grinned. "Years of the concept in action. It's kind of the motto of the house. We have the best consorts, but it's incredibly expensive to see them. Even the rich have to wait weeks for an appointment."

"Simple supply and demand?"

"Yup." Sherlock closed his eyes, looking very relaxed. John thought he might actually even fall asleep, he looked so peaceful.

But then those light green eyes opened, pinning John with surprising sobriety. "John, what happened yesterday? You were fine, dealing with my fire and everything, and then you…weren't."

John shifted under that steady gaze, feeling uncomfortable. "I…um…I talked with Mike about it this morning. He seems to think a stressful situation like that was an echo of something I experienced on the battlefield. And that my body involuntarily reacted to the perceived danger."

"Do you agree with his theory?"

John looked away from those perceptive eyes, thinking. Could he talk about this? Should he? Maybe now was the best time, when Sherlock was a little drunk. Maybe he would just listen like a good friend for John, and not really remember it much tomorrow.

Looking up at the ceiling, John bit his lip, thinking back on that time. It seemed like a lifetime ago, in some ways, but thinking about it brought it right back. Vivid.

"There was a young gunner, barely nineteen or so, both hands blown off by a jammed shell. Blood everywhere, his cries of pain, artillery fire still going off all around us. I was doing my best to patch him up enough to move him, keep him from bleeding out. I have a pretty strong stomach, having seen everything over the years, but that… that…" John closed his eyes, turning his face towards the back of the sofa.

There was a shifting beside him, Sherlock rested a hand on his lower leg. He didn't press, just being there, a quiet presence. Giving John the time he needed.

John took several slow, deep breaths. "The explosion caused a lot of damage, but the thing that really got to me…" He paused, swallowing hard, knowing he had to push on, get through this. "…he got burned a little. And as I worked on him, trying to stay focused, but that smell of his burnt hair…" Just thinking about it now, John could feel his stomach react, and he tried to push the feeling down.

"My robe…" Sherlock sat up, his eyes locked on John's, understanding.

Somehow, it helped a little. Knowing he got it. John nodded, and closed his eyes. Concentrated on the long, slow breaths that sometimes helped.

There was more shifting and pulling on the blanket. Sherlock had shifted on the sofa so he was lying on his side, his head near John's. And having him there, helped even more.

John wasn't sure how long they laid like that, close, but not touching. He could feel Sherlock's body heat, feel his presence, smell his sandalwood soap. Also, he felt a sense of peace spreading through his body.

Almost asleep, a bell jangling roused him. "What's that sound?" John said softly.

Sherlock sat up. "Sally's signal that my client is here. Time to get to work." He got up, and leaned down to give John's shoulder a squeeze before he left.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: There… a nice looooong chapter for you. Thanks for reading. :D

-Fun Facts:

-PTSD: Symptoms can include paralysis, blindness, deafness, mutism, limping, nightmares, insomnia, heart palpitations, nausea, dizziness, depression and disorientation.

-Sherlock's violin piece. I'm in love with this currently. Google Johann Sebastian Bach's 'Chaconne, Partita No. 2' played by Hilary Hahn.

-Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849) An American who is best known for his poems, and macabre short stories like 'The Masque of the Red Death" (1842).

-Injured Gunner: In my research, I found pictures of American Civil War (1861-1865) injured veterans, and based John's gunner on one of them. Private Samuel Decker was loading an artillery gun when the shell exploded. He lost half his right forearm, and somewhat less of the left. His face and chest were badly burned. Five hours later, both forearms were amputated. Three months later, the stumps were healed, and he started experiments for making himself artificial limbs. It took years, but eventually with his contraptions he could write legibly, pick up small objects (like a pin!), carry packages of ordinary weight, feed and clothe himself and in his work as a doorkeeper at the House of Representatives, handled a few instances of disorder. Google him for some great pictures of his incredible, artificial arms.


	8. Chapter 8

John slept well, and woke up to a sunny living room. When he came back from the washroom, he saw someone had left him clean clothes from his room to change into. He left the borrowed pajamas and robe folded on a chair.

There was no sign of Sherlock, and after all he had to drink the night before, John wouldn't be surprised if he had a lie-in. He considered leaving him a note, but decided against it.

He had breakfast and worked in his office, taking time to sit in the garden to enjoy some fresh air before lunch. His leg was much better, just the occasional twinge that made him happy to have the cane.

As he finished up his last afternoon appointment, Billy was at the door, passing John a note.

 **I hope you didn't forget your promise to check my burn. See you in the lab this afternoon if convenient. -SH**

It was a relief to read it. John felt a little unsure about how things stood between them. He had spent a couple nights and a whole day on Sherlock's sofa. A part of him worried he was overstaying his welcome, crowding Sherlock too much. The original offer had been only two afternoons a week, after all.

* * *

His cane clicked on the floor as John walked down the hallway, so John was sure Sherlock had heard him coming. But when he entered the lab, he found Sherlock bent over his microscope, his attention focused and unwavering.

With a little sigh, John turned back to his workstation. He could check on his condoms as he waited for Sherlock to come out of his science bubble.

But there, on his counter, was a huge basket, overflowing with dandelions, all tied up with a blue ribbon. John let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh, so surprised. Grabbing up the bundle, he turned to face Sherlock, a wide smile on his face.

"How...? Where...?" When had Sherlock found all the dandelions? He had been with John a lot yesterday. Had he found them all just that morning?

Sherlock was returning the smile; obviously pleased his surprise got such a reaction from John. He got up, walking towards him slowly. He moved with such fluid grace, his robe today one with an emerald green background, swirls of stylized birds here and there on the fine fabric.

He stopped in front of John, looking down at him with a fond look on his face. "Yesterday, I could tell you wouldn't be up to hunting for dandelions for a little while, especially when the areas near the house were all cleared already. So I arranged for some help."

"Help?" John asked, unable to drag his eyes away from Sherlock's. They really were so expressive and beautiful.

"There are a lot of street urchins who know the city well. It's advantageous arrangement all around, really. You get your dandelions, London gets a few less unsightly weeds, and some kids get money for a hot meal or two." Sherlock said softly, reaching out to fiddle with the blue ribbon.

John felt really touched at the gesture from his friend. "I love it, Sherlock, truly. I know it's customary to proudly display gifts of flowers in a vase for everyone's enjoyment, but would you mind terribly if I chop them into small pieces and extract their sap?" He grinned up at the taller man playfully.

Chuckling, Sherlock took the bundle from John and laid it on the workbench. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't. Let me help you with all this though. It will take ages to chop it all up."

Nodding, John pulled off his suit coat and got his lab coat on. He was soon sitting on a stool, chatting with Sherlock easily as they worked. When Sherlock got up to get a bigger sieve, John grabbed the discarded blue ribbon that had been around the dandelions, and slipped it into his pocket.

* * *

By the time they finished processing all the weeds, leaving them to drain overnight, John was feeling a little tired.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's clean up and sit on the sofa while I check your burn." John washed his hands and hung up his lab coat. He didn't bother to don his suit coat, just carrying it with him to the living room.

Sherlock dropped onto the sofa beside him, working on unbuttoning his cuff. John watched as his long fingers folded his sleeve up his arm, until it was above his elbow.

Taking hold of Sherlock's arm, John tilted it to the light from the window. It hadn't blistered, but it still looked fairly red. He ran light fingertips over it and could feel Sherlock's involuntary pulling back from the pain.

"It's still quite sore, isn't it?" John asked softly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose. It's not painful enough to keep me awake at night or anything. It just needs time to heal now."

John agreed. He slowly rolled the sleeve down, and did up his cuff. He wasn't even sure why he did it. When he finished, he looked up at Sherlock, finding his gaze steady on his face, and a bit of a half-smile on his full lips. John pulled his hands back, looking away.

"Weren't you discussing some new show with Mrs. Hudson at dinner yesterday?" Sherlock asked, shifting back on the sofa and crossing his legs.

Lowering his eyebrows a little at the sudden change of topic, John nodded. "Um, yeah. She has tickets for a show she can't go to, and offered them to me." John was thinking of asking Molly to go with him. She probably hadn't been out to events like that before.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John.

"What?" John chuckled. "Are you saying you want to go with me? I don't think it would your type of thing. You are into classical music, opera. This is entertainment for us plebs."

The eyebrow stayed arched. "Why do you say that? What type of show is it? I enjoy the arts in many forms."

John highly doubted it. "Well, this is a comic opera."

"That sounds great. We should go." Sherlock said, nodding decisively.

Was this some elaborate prank or something? Why was Sherlock suddenly so interested in going to something he would normally scoff at? John searched his neutral expression for a hint of his true purpose, but the tall man was giving nothing away.

"Well, OK then…." John said slowly. "Um, it's Sunday night."

"Looking forward to it." Sherlock gave a small smile in return.

* * *

The next few days seemed mostly normal, as normal as living in a brothel could be. John examined staff and clients, debated spontaneous generation with a housemaid, made condoms out of dandelions and gave a little cheer to himself as he shoved his cane back into his wardrobe.

Sherlock was Sherlock. He was lately doing experiments that involved fermenting sour milk, making the lab smell quite disgusting, especially when John was heating his sulphur-rubber mixture. John kept to his end of the lab as much as possible.

John was still waiting for Sherlock to cancel their Sunday plans. He didn't.

* * *

John felt relieved when the enthusiastic song, _"Hail to the ancient hat!_ ", ended and the curtain came down, signaling the intermission.

He could tell Sherlock hadn't enjoyed the performance so far, shifting in his seat the most during the song _"Hullo, What's that?_ " He had warned Sherlock that it probably wasn't his type of thing.

The house lights came up, and John turned in his seat, giving Sherlock an apologetic look. "This is all just a little too low-brow in its humor for you, isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed. "Well, I must admit to finding the plot quite ridiculous and the lyrics bloody awful, but some of the music is quite well crafted." He glanced down at his program, his light eyes scanning the paper. "The composer is Arthur Sullivan. Have you heard his music before?"

"No, but I've been out of the country so long. Mrs. Hudson says she saw the previous play by this team, and quite enjoyed it." John explained.

Sherlock stood up. "Come. Let's get a drink or two at the bar. Perhaps it will make the second half more enjoyable."

John followed the tall man up the theatre aisle. He was dressed in dark grey pinstripe trousers, paired with a navy suit jacket. His vest was paisley silk, swirls of blue against a light grey background. John felt comfortable in his three-piece tweed suit, although not as fancy as Sherlock, as he fit into the crowd better.

Walking together through the crowd in the lobby, John could see the way everyone looked at Sherlock. He could see two main reactions to him, either looks of appreciation at his well-dressed figure, or a look of recognition. The second usually lead to that person turning to their companions, speaking quickly in hushed tones, that resulted in the others viewing Sherlock with great interest.

Sherlock seemed immune to it all, his posture straight and proud. They bought their drinks, standing to the side as they sipped.

John felt irritated at how pointedly many people were staring at Sherlock, and turning their gazes to him, assessing, judging. He felt exposed, uncomfortable. Maybe they should just leave now. Neither of them were enjoying the show anyways.

"Mr. Holmes." A young man stepped up to them. He had straight brown hair, blue eyes and wore a suit similar to Sherlock's. One glance told John that this man came from a wealthy background; his clothing, his proud posture, and the way he was looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock barely flicked a glance at him, before looking back at the painting on the wall. "Mr. Anderson." He intoned, his voice dull and dismissive.

The tone made heat flare in Anderson's eyes, obviously offended. "I am surprised to see you at an event such as this. I didn't think you left your compound very often."

"Quite right." Sherlock said, not giving any reaction to the man beyond a dismissive nod. He turned to John. "Shall we return to our seats now?"

John put down his drink and allowed Sherlock to guide him back into the theatre. Back in their seats, John could see Mr. Anderson glaring at them from his box seats on the side of the theatre.

"Who is that man, Sherlock?" John was too curious to not ask.

Sherlock leaned close, his voice low. John had to strain to hear him. "Just a rich git who wanted to become a client. He came to a ball once."

"Oh, and did he act inappropriately?" John was intrigued. Clearly, he was a wealthy man who Sherlock didn't like.

Sherlock lowered his brows, his eyes searching John's. "I thought you understood how the house works by now."

John was confused. "I thought I did too. What am I missing? Potential clients write to Sally, asking for an appointment. She makes them wait ages, and finally gives them one. I screen them for health risks. The consort handles it all from there."

Chuckling, Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Mostly right, but you missed a couple steps. When they first write to Sally, she checks their name with her contacts, and so does Greg. If things are clear there, the potential client is invited to a ball. We all see how they act with the staff, and send them an invitation for an appointment only if they pass muster. Anderson didn't."

John nodded, thinking about the explanation as the lights came down.

The second half of the show was still pretty awful, but John and Sherlock shared a few laughs. Perhaps the intermission drinks had helped a little, let them enjoy it more.

Perhaps they also helped John relax, and not be as bothered by the stares from the crowd. Greg had warned John that Sherlock was very well known from his business, and this was the first time John had really been aware of the scope of that. He was likely recognized and talked about, wherever he went. It was his reality, and John had to accept it if he was going to be Sherlock's friend.

* * *

In the carriage ride home, a thought occurred to John. "Oh! You screen the clients at the ball. Just like you did to me at the interview."

In the low light of the lurching vehicle, Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Correct." They were travelling slowly, caught in the after-theatre crush of carriages on the roads.

John thought back on that fateful first day. He had been so overwhelmed by the house, and trying to land the job, he hadn't really thought about Sherlock's quick appearance. "Those things you said about me, was that from researching me somehow? Some kind of network?"

"People look, but they don't see." Sherlock sighed. "It was just from looking you over, John. Your posture and haircut said army, your tan said warm country. Your clothes and shoes told me about your financial situation. The way you move showed your old injuries, such as they are. Your eyes showed confidence in your abilities, despite recent difficulties."

John chuckled, amazed and delighted. "What did you see in Anderson?"

"Wanker. Rich, posh git, unfortunately far too common in the elite."

"You didn't allow him to become a client just because of that? I would have thought rich idiots were the ideal type of client. _'A fool and his money are soon parted,_ ' and all that." John smirked at his friend in the dark carriage. One thing you could say about Sherlock was that he was never boring.

The tall man scoffed. "We aren't lacking for rich clients. One of the true privileges of owning the house is having absolute control over who I allow in."

"Do you screen all the employees too?" John thought about his interview again. Did Sherlock do the same thing at all interviews? Right down to the stable boys?

"Of course. The house has a lot of powerful clients. Wouldn't do to allow for something untoward to happen on our grounds."

John nodded, thinking of the hundreds of London's richest and most powerful who came there each month. And during his whole time there, he had never heard of any scandals or incidents.

"Aren't you afraid that people you turn away could stir up trouble? Anderson was glaring at you all during the play. He's not used to not getting his way."

"There are enough clients and friends of the house to handle anything that may arise." Sherlock said calmly. "He would be more of a danger if I let him be a client. They say stupidity is not contagious, but I'm not willing to risk my staff, just in case."

John laughed along with Sherlock, glad that they had gone out tonight, even if the play wasn't that good. The more time he spent with Sherlock, the more he liked him. He hadn't had a new friend like this in a long time. They shared laughs, and had fun with their lab experiments.

John liked how he acted with Greg, Sally and Mrs. Hudson, treating them with sincere fondness and respect. They obviously returned it too.

The general staff of the house also respected him, even though they didn't know him as well, as directly. They knew him as the owner of the house, the place they lived and worked. Wonderful conditions they would have a hard time finding anywhere else. They valued it, working hard in return.

"You mentioned 'friends of the house'. Who do you mean?" John asked, glad Sherlock seemed so open talking about this.

Sherlock turned from looking out the window, the streetlight lighting up half his face, the rest in shadow. "People who know us, support us, but aren't clients. Like Mike Stamford. Some are former clients, often men who married and are actually honoring their vows, as shocking as that seems." Sherlock grinned, chuckling.

John joined him. It seemed like about half the clients wore wedding rings, and he never asked about it. He just did his best to ensure a client wasn't taking home something unwanted to the marital bed.

"Also some former staff." Sherlock added.

The comment reminded John about the senior staff dinner, discussing Sidra. "So, if Sidra ends up marrying Sir Edmund?"

"Exactly. Both of them will still be welcome to come to the balls, to visit when they want."

It made sense, keeping Sir Edmund on their good side, even if he stopped being a client. "I was a little confused at how you were all so accepting of her leaving. Won't you miss having her as a consort?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the question. "Of course, we all love her and will miss her. But what choice do we have but to let her go, when she decides it right for her?" Taking his pocket watch out, Sherlock glanced at the time. "All we can do is make the house a good place for people to live and work. They choose if they want to stay or go."

"But you probably give people more reasons to go than stay, giving all the training that you do." John had seen several staff leaving for other types of employment. Maids leaving to become governesses. Doormen leaving to become valets and butlers. There was even a stable boy who left to take a position as a musician. This was not just women leaving to get married, or people leaving to take care of a distant elderly relative.

Sherlock sighed. "The staff have a lot of hours when they are not working. I'd rather that they have opportunities to use that time for constructive pursuits, than destructive ones. It keeps them happier, and the whole house runs smoother because of it. And if after being here a few years, they leave for a better job, isn't that a good thing? The world certainly needs more educated and trained people."

"You're not running a brothel. You are running a bloody university. A finishing school." John chuckled.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not some philanthropist or something. The monthly consort fees covers the cost of running the house. The costs of the books in the library and instructors we bring in all come out of that. The senior staff handle it all."

John just nodded, giving up trying to argue the point with the man. Most people would have worked their staff to the bone, and thrown them to the side when they were used up. Spent as little on their food and housing as possible, and kept the rest of the money for themselves. It was far too common these days. It happened to prostitutes, left old and disease-ridden to die. It happened to maids and other house staff, when years of hard work and poor nutrition left them unable to keep up with the demands of the job. For many, life was nasty, brutish and short.

Even John faced a similar fate, coming back to England. The army had taken his best years, left him practically penniless and with a badly injured shoulder. He had been lucky to survive, when a serious infection had set in. He had used up all his meager savings, living in a dirty bedsit as he recovered.

Finally, he was strong enough to look for work, but had found very little. Most couldn't afford to pay him cash for services rendered; instead they haggled and gave him some food or clothing usually.

He got by, but there was no chance to get ahead. He needed money to set up his own practice, and connections to draw in patients who could pay in cash. He had no savings left, and his sister didn't have any money either.

The letter from Mike had been a ray of hope, a chance for more. He had grabbed the opportunity with both hands, and would have done anything to get out of that horrible existence. Living day to day, barely.

John looked back at the quiet man beside him in the carriage, deep in his own thoughts. Who was he? How had he gone from a wealthy family and good education to this? Where had he learned to run a brothel, let alone such a highly successful one? How had he started in the business? Had he been estranged from his family? Did his parents die with debts, leaving him poor, alone and desperate? Had he been poor? When had he met the senior staff and how had he started working with them?

As much as Sherlock's past intrigued him, his present did as well. What was Sherlock like with his clients? What did he do that brought them back, time after time? What happened behind those closed doors?

And why did he keep doing it? He was obviously extremely wealthy now, no matter what had happened in his past. He seemed quite happy in his wing of the house, involved in his own pursuits. Meeting with the senior staff and attending the balls to manage everything. Would the house not run as well if he wasn't one of the consorts? Would they lose prestige and their best customers?

John doubted it. The consorts were in high demand, booked up for weeks in advance. He had heard that they charged the clients enough to cover their monthly fee two or three times or more. He could believe it. They often took time off, travelling to places like Paris and coming back with suitcases packed with the latest fashions. As long as they covered their monthly fee, they could work as much or as little as they wanted, as long as it didn't exceed a client a day.

The more he learned about Sherlock and his world, the more questions he had. John wanted answers. Wanted to know everything about this fascinating man.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Flowers and a night out? What's next, Sherlock? A heart-shaped box of chocolates? ;)

-Fun Facts:

-Pleb: Term from ancient Rome for commoner. Plebian comes from this too.

-Spontaneous Generation: Before germ theory, there was a body of thought that living organisms could just spontaneously arise. This was how things like maggots appearing in rotting meat were explained. It originated with Aristotle, but Louis Pasteur was able to refute it with prize-winning experiments in 1862. His 1857 experiments with lactate fermentation were what Sherlock was trying to replicate with his sour milk.

-Comic Opera: John & Sherlock go see 'The Contrabandista' (1867). It was the 2nd work of librettist FC Burnand and composer Arthur Sullivan, but wasn't as successful as their 1st show. The song titles are real ones from the show. Sullivan met librettist WS Gilbert a couple years later, and collaborated together on fourteen comic operas between 1871 and 1896, including the 'HMS Pinafore', 'The Pirates of Penzance' and 'The Mikado'. Gilbert and Sullivan comic operas are still often performed today.


	9. Chapter 9

"Doctor, Doctor!" The urgent call was accompanied with several hard raps on his door.

Putting down a letter from Harriett, John pulled on his robe as he moved to the door. The footman outside had an anxious look on his face. "Please, doctor. Your help is needed at once. A client, sir."

Nodding, John belted his robe and slipped his shoes on. "We will need to stop by my office first for my bag." His heart was pounding already, wondering what he would encounter.

Walking briskly, they were soon climbing the staircase in the main foyer, to the floor John had never been to before.

At the top of the stairs, there was a room with double doors set into an elaborate entranceway. The footman led John down the hall to the right. A door was ajar, many people standing inside. "Dr. Watson is here now, make way please."

People stepped back, and John could see clearly now to a large bed. Two people were lying on it, covered with bedsheets. Greg stood nearby, and Claire beside him.

"Would you two stay please, but clear everyone else out?" John said to them, setting down his bag on the bedside table, and turning up the light on the lamp as high as it would go.

Greg dealt with the people.

"Claire, what can you tell me?" John was looking over the man, his face tight with pain.

"Charles had a back spasm at a rather…delicate time. He fell on top of Vanessa, pinning her down and was not able to move without tremendous pain." She was direct and thorough in her explanation, just as John knew she would be.

His examination of Vanessa showed tenderness that he suspected was from a cracked rib, possibly two. Nothing broken, at least. He wrapped her ribcage securely, and then had Claire fetch some footman to assist her back to her own bedroom. She would be all right after a week or so of rest. He gave some painkillers to Claire to give Vanessa once she was settled.

He examined Charles next, asking him questions as he probed along his vertebrae.

"Charles, you have two choices. I think it would be best if we moved you to a quiet bedroom here and let you recover a few days, before you attempt the bumpy carriage ride home." John said calmly, just laying out the option.

The older man tried to shake his head, but clenched in pain at the motion. "Impossible. I cannot stay here."

John thought he would say that. "Then I can give you a strong dose of laudanum, enough that your pain will be numbed for the journey. We can put you on a stretcher to carry you down the stairs and get you into the carriage. It will be very uncomfortable."

Glancing up at Greg, he nodded in agreement. Anything to help this prestigious client get home discretely.

The patient agreed to that option, and John did his best to make him as comfortable for the journey. Greg left to arrange to the stretcher and his strongest men to get him moved.

Within thirty minutes, the dopey patient was being carried away under Greg's supervision. John was left alone in the bedroom as he repacked his medical bag.

So much had happened so fast, it felt quite late. But when he stepped into the hallway, the grandfather clock showed it was only a little past midnight. John must have only been in his room for a half hour or so before the knock on his door.

As he walked down the hall, he noticed the bedroom doors were open, the consorts and clients departed for the night. He peered into one, but it was dark and he didn't have a lamp handy.

He reached the stairway, but paused. To his right, there were the closed double doors, and John was quite sure it must be Sherlock's room. His client was always the last scheduled one of the night, so it made sense that his appointment was still going on when the others were done.

Turning to go down the stairs, John froze when he heard a low moan. It came from behind those double doors. Had it come from Sherlock or his client?

John cursed his good memory when he could easily picture that client. He was a young man of five and twenty, healthy and attractive. A ginger, with sky blue eyes and fair, slightly freckled skin, who chatted easily with John about a recent trip he took to Scotland.

There was another moan, this one longer and louder. John was pretty sure it was from the client, Russell. Curiosity got the better of him, and before John could think twice, he stepped into the doorway of the nearest empty bedroom. For so long, he had wondered about what Sherlock was like with his clients, having such a hard time reconciling the Sherlock he had gotten to know with the infamous consort. 'The Courtesan', as Greg had called him that first day.

Setting down his doctor's bag on the floor, John leaned back against the wall in the dark bedroom. Listening hard, he was sure he could hear Russell moaning softly, and quite often. What was happening behind those closed doors?

John imagined it must be a large, elegant bedroom. He pictured a large bed, perhaps a four-poster, with many pillows and luxurious bedding. He heard a groan, and pictured Russell, naked and writhing in pleasure. Sherlock on the bed with him, his slim body, all that pale skin.

There was another moan, sounding even more desperate. John looked out to the stairs, knowing he really should leave. To stay any longer was just wrong. _Go, go…_

"Yes, yes… Please… Sherlock…" John could only hear Russell, and too many possibilities of what Sherlock could be doing came to his mind.

The young man cried out in pleasure, clearly reaching his peak. John felt a bit breathless, disturbed. Ashamed.

Picking up his bag, John got ready to go. But as he was about to step out, he heard a noise, and shrunk back.

It was one of the footmen, and he knocked lightly on Sherlock's door. It took a minute or two for the door to open. Russell stood there, doing up the sash on his robe, looking mussed up. He turned, saying a few words. John could only make out the word 'Sherlock' and assumed he was saying goodbye. He then followed the footman down the stairs.

John was frozen now. Would Sherlock come out right away, or would he stay in the room for a while? John couldn't chance getting caught by him.

He couldn't see the clock but it was probably about ten minutes later when the door opened again. Sherlock stood in the doorway, wiping a towel over his face, and then draping it around his neck. His shirt was untucked, only a couple buttons fastened. One of his silk robes, a black one with aqua patterns on it, flowed behind him as he ran down the stairs and headed towards his wing.

A few minutes later, John went down the stairs and got to his room, a bit breathless.

* * *

John was becoming distracted and irritable. The last few days, the sounds of Russell's moans and words kept echoing in his mind again and again. In addition to that, he kept remembering all of Sherlock's clients that he had examined over the past few months, imaging how they would have moaned under Sherlock's touch. Picturing Sherlock with them.

John only knew the basics of what two men did together in bed. In the army, he had seen signs of men being together, but hadn't given it much notice. It was never something that had interested him before.

A few wonderful times in his life, John had a partner who had used her mouth to pleasure him. It was quite rare, and considered extremely taboo. That was presumably something men did together as well. What would it feel like from a man? Would his technique be different, better, since he knew what brought pleasure himself? And what would it be like to pleasure a man that way?

Would it feel a lot different to penetrate a man than a woman? As a doctor, he had examined his fair share of prostates, applying oil to his fingers to make the process easier. Once a man was prepared for it, wouldn't the sensations be similar? Knowing that men usually enjoyed their prostate being touched, John wondered how penetrative sex with a partner would feel. Was such motion against a prostate enough to reach completion?

* * *

"Hmmmm..." Sherlock peered into his microscope, twisting the focus knob slightly. "John, come look at this."

John looked at him inquisitively, but the dark haired man was looking at his sample again. Sighing, John stood up, wiping his hands off with a rag. They were still sticky from handling the cut-up weeds.

When he stood beside Sherlock, the tall man got off his stool and motioned for John to sit down. Leaning forward, John looked down the eyepiece of the microscope.

"What am I looking at?" John squinted, seeing some dark dots and straight lines against a light background. He hadn't looked through microscopes that often.

Sherlock huffed. "Hmmm... Here, let me take a peak."

John shifted to get off the stool, but Sherlock put his hands on his shoulders, leaning John to the side slightly. He was standing right behind John, and he braced himself with his hand of John's left shoulder while leaning over his other one. He peered into the device, adjusting the slide position. "Ahhh, there. They moved a little. Look now."

John took his turn when Sherlock moved back, this time seeing oval shapes moving slowly in his field of vision. "What are those?"

"Paramecium. It's a water sample from the pond." Sherlock was still standing behind him, his hand on John's shoulder. So close.

"Oh, they moved again." John said, leaning back. "Can you move the slide again? I have sap on my hands."

Sherlock leaned down, and John felt aware of his heat, his scent. Just having him close, nudging against each other. Sherlock chuckled. "They keep moving out of range."

"Stage fright, perhaps?" John commented.

Sherlock straightened up, waving John towards the scope again. "I think the little buggers are trying to make me look bad in front of you."

Watching the oval shapes move around, bumping into the other objects, John chuckled. "Are you trying to impress me?"

"Is it working?" Sherlock's baritone was playful in a way that always warmed John, enjoying his friend when he was like this. Playful, fun, sharing his interests.

John leaned back. "Surely you know that you impress everyone. Why else would they be beating down the door to see you?"

Sherlock pulled John off the stool and sat down on it, ready to go back to his work. "Do you think I care what 'everyone' thinks? I asked what you think."

Tilting his head to the side, John looked down at Sherlock. "You seem all right, I guess."

"Gee, I feel overwhelmed by your faint praise." Sherlock leaned back against the work counter, looking amused.

John sighed, looking out the window. "Ok, you play violin very well. I'd like to hear you play again."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "That's it?"

"Oh, you want a list? 'How do you impress me? Let me count the ways.'" John joked back. Was he supposed to list off how great Sherlock seemed to be at everything? Everyone was impressed by him.

 _Russell certainly had sounded impressed by him._

The thought made John dip his head down, blushing. Suddenly it just seemed a bit much, Sherlock looking up at him, being so close, joking around like this.

John looked away. "Um...washroom." He walked fast out of the lab, only breathing easier once he was behind the washroom's locked door.

Taking a few minutes, John calmed his breathing, splashed water on his face, and looked in the mirror. He looked normal, he guessed.

When he came back to the lab, he just nodded at Sherlock when he looked up. He sat down and got back to work, pretending things were normal.

But those thoughts about Sherlock and his clients kept pushing in, making it hard to concentrate. He packed up, leaving soon after with a weak excuse, Sherlock scowling slightly as he went.

* * *

Looking around one last time, John took a deep breath and ran up the stairs. At the top, he quickly stepped into the first open doorway, catching his breath and listening hard.

He was pretty sure there was no one around here this time of day, but he wanted to be sure. He had an excuse handy, but it wasn't that strong.

After a couple minutes, he felt calm enough and stepped into the hall, glancing around again. He walked fast to the closed double doors, and with his heart beating fast, turned the door handle.

 _What was he doing? This is madness! Get out! Go now!_

The sane part of his brain screamed warnings that he ignored, and he slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him.

It was quiet and empty, and John let out a breath of relief. Now he just had to hope it stayed that way.

It was a huge bedroom. There were large windows on the wall in front of him, with a view into the back garden. A massive bed was to his left, with carved wooden posts on each corner. It was heaped with decorative pillows and fine linens. On the right were ornamental screens, hiding what was behind them.

Sherlock's words from all those weeks ago rang in his head. His mention of closets and dressers full of things to entice clients. John wanted to see Sherlock's.

He found a closet door tucked against the wall, but the door was locked. So were the drawers of the two large dressers and the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was all so close, but frustratingly unavailable.

John sighed, feeling disappointed. He had taken chances coming up here, hoping to satisfy some of his curiosity about Sherlock with his clients, but didn't get much beyond what the room looked like.

As he turned to go, a bright spot of color on the floor caught his eye. Looking closer, John lifted the bed skirt and saw a large feather on the floor there. It had obviously been dyed, as it was a bright fuchsia pink in color.

Picking it up, John looked it over. Where had it come from? What had Sherlock been doing with it? Was it part of a feather fan? A feather boa?

He wanted to look around more, see what was behind the screens, but there was a noise in the hall.

Creeping to stand near the door, John listened hard. There was someone else moving around nearby.

Opening the door the tiniest bit, John peered into the hallway. He saw Molly go from one bedroom, and into the next, her arms heaped with folded towels. She was probably putting them in all the rooms.

Hide, and hope she didn't notice him, or step into the hallway and brazen it out?

Taking a deep breath, John stepped into the hall. Molly was there a second later.

"Oh John! Ah, what are you doing up here?"

John gave her an easy smile, a little self-deprecating. "I was up here the other night when Vanessa got injured, and I left something behind from my medical bag. I just checked this bedroom, but it's not her's."

Molly chuckled, shaking her head. "No, that's Mr. Holmes' room. Vanessa's is the second one on the left." She pointed the way.

John shrugged. "Must have gotten it mixed up in my mind. Things were pretty crazy up here that night."

She nodded in understanding, and went into the next room with her towels.

John made a show of going into Vanessa's room for a couple minutes before running down the stairs. He'd been lucky it had been Molly who spotted him, not someone else.

It was only when he was back safe in his own bedroom that he realized he was still holding the feather.

* * *

John sighed in relief as he slipped into bed that night. The day had dragged on and on. He felt distracted, moody, but that was nothing new. His emotions were all over the place lately.

Leaning over, he pulled open his bedside table drawer, and took out that pink feather from where he had stashed it. It had been in his mind all day, wondering about it.

He looked it over carefully. It was large and in good shape, the vane not bent or damaged. The base did not have any residue of glue on it, so John didn't think it came from a fan.

Experimentally, he ran the feather along his neck. It tickled, and he felt his skin prickle at the sensation.

Not considering it too hard, John opened the buttons of his pajama top, spreading it open, and ran the feather down his chest. He played with different strokes, teasing it over his skin. Eventually, he closed his eyes, still playing with the feather.

His mind went right back to where it had been for days now. Imaging Sherlock with Russell, now picturing them in Sherlock's room, on his bed. Russell, stretched out and naked, writhing in pleasure as Sherlock teased him. With this feather.

Just like John was doing to himself now. Flicking it around his nipples until they were hard and sensitive. Light strokes down his stomach, along his waistband.

John opened his eyes, dropping the feather. What was he doing? He was picturing his friend, his boss… a man...naked. Having sex with another man. And John couldn't deny he was definitely aroused by it all.

Shaking his head at himself, he still undid the drawstring of his pajama bottoms and took them off. Lying naked on the bed, his hands stroking, pleasuring. He kept his eyes closed, indulging himself by thinking of those images on his mind so often lately, his breath speeding up. He hadn't done this for a few days, and he was close, so close. So good. His release was long and satisfying, biting his lip to stifle the groan he wanted to let out.

As he cooled off and cleaned up, John chuckled to himself as he picked up the pink feather, tucking it back into the drawer. When he snuggled under the covers, drifting to sleep, a troubling thought rose in his mind.

The fantasies and images that had been so effective earlier were only of men. He hadn't thought of women at all.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: So, things are heating up a fair bit now. The rating will be Mature, but not that explicit.

-Laudanum: This reddish-brown bitter fluid was sold over the counter up to the 20th century. A 10% solution of opium in alcohol, that was highly addictive. It was commonly used in the Victorian era as a pain reliever, sleep aid and even given to infants in the nursery to help calm them. Initially it was a working class drug, cheaper than a bottle of gin or wine because it was considered a medicine and not taxed as alcoholic beverages were.

-Paramecium: A single celled organism, that uses hair-like cilia like oars to swim around.

-'How do you impress me? Let me count the ways.': This is a play on the words of the poem 'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She wrote 44 love sonnets between 1845-1846, when she and her husband were secretly courting. They married in 1846, and he encouraged her to publish the lovely words when she finally let him read them three years later. Since they were so personal, the collection was published under the name "Sonnets from the Portuguese" (1850), to make them seem like translations.

-Research: Thanks to everyone for commenting that they enjoy the mini-history blurbs at the end of the chapters. Credit should go mostly to Wikipedia, as 95% of the info is from there. Yay Wikipedia! Sorry I have not supplied links to my info sources. If you are curious about anything, contact me & I'll give more details.


	10. Chapter 10

John returned the enthusiastic hug, holding the slight woman tight in his arms.

Letting go, he pulled back to gaze at his older sister. Like him, she showed signs of a far from easy life on her face, but there was a sense of peace and happiness in her eyes. He felt the knot of worry he always had about her ease somewhat.

Her gaze back did show concern about him, however, a turnabout that made him chuckle a little as she led him to a small sitting room and served him tea.

"OK, you know I love seeing you, but usually you give me some warning when you visit. What brings you down here?" She sat back on her chair, clearly waiting for a good explanation.

John sighed, looking around the room as he tried to think where to start. It was a good sized, comfortable house, and it was a relief to see Harriet living well.

"You know my life has changed so much in the past year, and I like where I live now, the work I do, even though it's unusual." John started.

She smiled, encouraging him to continue. "But..."

Biting his lip, John knew he had to be open and ask the hard questions. That was why he had hopped on the first train to Brighton when he woke up, grateful he had a couple days off.

"Harriet, when did you know that you were different? That you liked women?"

Her eyebrows rose, clearly not expecting such a question from her brother. "May I ask why you are asking?"

John nodded. "Um, well, lately... I have felt attracted to a man I work with."

"Oh, I see." Her hazel eyes warmed, and she reached over to squeeze his hand. "Well, it's very confusing, isn't it? It must be even harder for you, since you have only been with women before this, right?"

John shook his head. "Right."

"Does he return your feelings?" She took a scone, spreading jam over it slowly.

Taking a sip of his tea, John looked out the window as he thought about it. "Um...I don't really know. We are friends, I guess. But he's also my boss, officially. That's another thing about this whole mess that scares me. What if I approach him, and he's not interested? It could damage our friendship, and I could even lose my job."

Harriet nodded, thinking. She knew how hard John's life had been since he came back to England, had felt bad for not being able to help him more. "Are your feelings so strong you would risk all that? Have you felt like this a long time?"

John thought back over the past few months. "It all grew gradually, as I've gotten to know him better. It's only lately that it's been more...um..."

She grinned a bit wickedly, chuckling at his discomfort. "Carnal?"

Laughing along, John was sure he was blushing a little. "I can't stop thinking about him. I can hardly sleep, hardly think..."

"You got it bad, John." Harriet stood up, motioning for him to follow. "Come on, it looks pretty sunny outside. Let's walk along the beach and talk more about this."

* * *

With her urging, he took off his suit jacket and vest, wearing just his dress shirt and tie with his tweed trousers. It was nice feeling the sun on his skin, the English sunlight mild compared to what he had gotten used to. The waves were calm, a soothing background noise as they wandered along the quiet beach, talking it out.

"John, the last year or so, you have gone through so much. Your shoulder, not finding much work, struggling to pay rent. You have been so much happier since you moved to Kebar St. You have work you like, have made friends, saved up money. I like seeing you like this." Harriet dug her bare feet into the sand, looking out across the waves.

"But..." John added, bracing himself for what she might say.

She turned, looking into John's eyes. He could see the slight yellowing of her's, a result of all her years of drinking. "I can tell you really like and admire Sherlock as a friend, but I wonder if that has spilled over into an infatuation. You said yourself that you only recently started to feel attracted to him. My opinion, which you are free to disregard, is that you should wait a while to act in these feelings. Make sure they are true feelings, before you risk your friendship and even your place there. Give it some time. See if he shares your feelings."

John nodded, knowing what she said was the most sensible way to go. "But how do I deal with thinking about him all the time, and all that?"

She sighed, leaning against his side. He wrapped an arm around her back, sitting a bit closer on the bench. "Don't avoid him, but balance your life out. Spend time with other people, pursue your other interests, maybe even go on some dates with other people. Get some perspective on it all. A little distance. If you still have those feelings after a month or two, hopefully you'll know by then if he shares them."

John nodded, knowing she was right. It was sensible, sane. But it fought against every part of himself that urged him to leave now and go right to Sherlock, grab his head with both hands, and kiss him hard. For a few days. Push the tall berk flat on that big sofa in from of the fire, undress him slowly and kiss everywhere. That would probably take a few more days, at least.

"You're thinking about him right now, aren't you?" Harriet nudged his shoulder with hers, and he flashed her a guilty look. "You got it so bad. I haven't seen you like this since Bianca Jenkins!"

John grinned, remembering. "Oh yes... she was so lovely, all that long blond hair."

"Too bad all the other boys liked her too. You hardly relaxed around her, growling at any man who looked her way." Harriet teased.

John nodded, thinking back on one of his first girlfriends, back when he was fourteen or so. It had been so sweet and innocent, never more than holding hands and a few quick kisses. She had been very pretty and was quite the flirt. John's acts of jealousy seemed to delight her, and he soon tired of it.

"I didn't feel very secure with her. Everyone wanted her, and she knew it. I kept wondering why she was with me." John shook his head, running his hand through his hair.

Harriet took his other hand, giving it a squeeze. "You sell yourself short, I think. You are a good man, John. Smart, funny, caring and tough."

"I noticed you didn't mention anything about my looks. Are you saying I'm ugly, but have a good personality?" John joked.

She rolled her eyes, looking like she did as a girl, the big sister who he had taken delight in bugging. "You have gorgeous deep blue eyes, an easy smile, and for someone of your advanced years, you are still fairly fit. I bet I have a friend or two around here who would be very happy to meet you."

"Hmmmm really?" John pondered the idea. Maybe going out and meeting some different people would be fun. Flirt and joke around a bit.

Harriet stood up, pulling John off the bench. "Come on, let's go back. Clara is probably back by now and we'll have supper soon. Maybe we can go out to the pub later, and you can meet some of our friends."

* * *

John gave Clara and Harriet an unimpressed glare, trying to ignore their giggles. "This is a pub for sodomites!" His whisper was harsh.

Harriet looked pointedly at the female couples around the room. "Everyone here?"

Rolling his eyes as his deliberately provoking sister, John didn't join in on their chuckles. "And...and...," he struggled to find the word, "Sapphists...Sapphic..."

Clara seemed to enjoy his fumbling. "Please, Doctor, I'm a happily married woman!" Her hazel eyes were wide with feigned affront.

"Who shares a bedroom with her 'Companion'." John shot back, getting his own in.

Harriet put a hand over her girlfriend's. "You can't expect her to sleep with her husband. He is so ill, and it would disturb the little sleep he manages to get."

"Yes, and I get awfully cold and lonely in my own big bed." Clara said warmly to Harriet.

John couldn't help but smile watching them together. Clara was so sweet with his sister. Fate had surely played a part in getting them together. Harriet had applied for the job as a live-in companion for Clara, the young wife of an old, sickly man. They gave him wonderful care, but were able to spend much of the day together when he rested.

It was much better than Harriet's previous relationships; usually living with men she had met in bars, usually both alcoholics. She had only worked as a seamstress occasionally over the years.

Clara lived simply, in a comfortable house with a housemaid and a cook. They kept the house 'dry', to keep Harriet away from temptation. Her husband was on too many medications to drink alcohol.

"Who is your friend, Clara?" A short man with straight dark hair sidled up to her, eying John with blatant interest.

She wrapped her arm around him casually, obviously comfortable with him. "Richard, this is Harriet's brother, John. Just visiting from London."

Holding his hand out across the table, John had no choice but to shake it, nodding at the friendly man.

Another man, this one with greying hair and very bright blue eyes, sat on Clara's other side. "Harriet's brother, did you say?"

Clara laughed, glancing his way. "Thomas, meet John. I think you heard the rest."

John shook the other man's hand as well, and everyone chatted easily. Clara had lived in Brighton many years, and the men were old friends of hers. Everyone was drinking, except Harriet, who had a sarsaparilla. It eased into relaxed joking around.

"So, why did you bring John to this pub, Harriet?" Thomas asked.

She glanced at John, giving him a mischievous look. "John is considering joining our little club."

The comment was received with interest by both men, looking over John with speculation.

John shook his head, shocked Harriet brought such a private thing up. "I just _privately_ talked with my sister about some concerns I had."

"He's concerned about getting all hot and bothered around a guy he knows." She quipped, nudging him with her elbow.

John gave a pained sigh.

Richard leaned forward. "Well, if you have any questions or need any help, I'm available. Very available."

"It's probably better if I help you with that, John. I'm older, more experienced." Thomas joked, glancing Richard's way.

Harriet laughed, holding up her hands. "Down, boys, down. You are going to scare him away. He's very new to all of this."

"How new?" Clara smiled, enjoying John's slight blush of discomfort.

John shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. "I just like a bloke, OK?"

She reached over the table, giving his forearm a squeeze. "I'm just wondering how far down the rabbit hole you've gone into our Wonderland. Have you been in bed with him? Rolled around naked?"

John didn't think sharing a sofa fully clothed counted for much. He shook his head.

"Kissed him? Grabbed his butt?" Clara joked, trying to lighten this up.

John smirked, and then shook his head. He'd certainly thought about doing all those things though.

Richard was nodding. "Oh, you are really new to all this, then."

"So, what's holding you back? Religious beliefs? Disapproving families?" Thomas asked.

John shook his head slowly. He wasn't particularly religious and doubted Sherlock was either. John's only family was Harriet now, and he knew she only wanted him to be happy.

"He's a friend, but I don't know that much about his past." John mumbled.

Harriet put an arm around his shoulders. "But he's a member of the club already?" John hadn't told her much about Sherlock's job, just that they worked together.

John scoffed at the question. "Yeah, I'd say he's a very active participant. Tall, gorgeous, very sought after. Probably way out of my league."

"They work together and are friends. I told John he should wait a little before doing anything. He doesn't want to jeopardize what he has already." Harriet said to her friends.

There was nodding at that, a pause in the conversation.

"Well, if you want any practice in the meantime..." Thomas drawled, giving John a saucy grin that had everyone chuckling.

"...you know where to find me." Richard chimed in.

The joking and playful innuendos continued, John giving as good as he got. After being in the army, and now working in a brothel, there wasn't much he hadn't heard before and he didn't embarrass easily.

At the end of the evening, he walked back to the house with Clara and Harriet. It was a mild summer night, the stars big and bright in the sky.

He was glad he had followed his impulse and come down here. It was good to talk things out with Harriet. They had a rocky relationship in the past, but since he'd been back in England, they had visited a few times and wrote letters often. They were both a bit more settled and happy, maybe more mature as well. Harriet was still battling her alcoholism, but was doing well with it lately.

Talking to her about Sherlock had really helped put it all into perspective. There were feelings there, but it was risky to act in them. As much as he wanted to make a big romantic gesture, just be impulsive and follow his urges, he needed to be smart about this.

Being at the pub had been good too. Just being around people who knew who they were, accepted each other, supported each other. It was also a boost to his self-esteem to have the two men flirting with him like that. They were attractive, smart and funny, but he didn't feel the spark, the chemistry, like he did around Sherlock. But the undeniable interest he saw in the way they looked at him still felt good.

* * *

John woke early, and had a simple breakfast of tea and toast. He wandered along the beach, letting the waves lap at his ankles, his trousers rolled up to his knees.

The ocean was beautiful, and he soaked it in. What would it be like to come down here with Sherlock, as a couple? Stay in a hotel, eat out, walk in the beach, go for a swim? Stretch out on the sand under a beach umbrella, just relaxing and reading the afternoon away. Spending time with Clara and Harriet, showing off his smart, gorgeous boyfriend.

Then again, what was stopping him from asking Sherlock on a trip here, just as a friend? Couldn't they spend time together as friends outside of the house, like the night they went to that play?

John sighed, breaking out of his fantasies. He had to face up to the fact that he was romantically, sexually interested in Sherlock. He needed to follow Harriet's advice. Limit contact with Sherlock for a while. Stop all the obsessive thoughts. Go back to a life that didn't orbit around Sherlock. Get his perspective back.

He sat on the beach, staring out at the water, for a long time. It was relaxing and hypnotic. He could feel the tension inside unwinding, his breathing coming easier. The craziness the past few weeks had been hard on him. Last night had been his first good sleep in a long time.

* * *

"Ah, there you are." Harriet dropped onto the sand beside him, her arms coming around him for a hug. She smiled at him, her eyes searching his. "How are you doing out here?"

John smiled back. "I feel good. Just thinking. So, how are things going for you these days?"

Harriet brushed some strands of hair that had escaped her bun behind her ears. She sighed. "Good, most days. I'm still working on it."

"Really? What are you struggling with?" John asked, taking her hand in his. He had thought she was doing really well.

She gave a tight smile, shrugging. "Life. It's a lot harder trying to do it sober."

John gave her an understanding look. "I am really proud of you, you know."

Lifting a hand, she brushed at a tear welling in one eye, clearly touched by his comment. "Thanks. So, did I tell you that I'm apprenticing with a milliner?"

"Really? Doesn't that interfere with your 'companion' position?" John teased.

It was good to see her laugh at that. "Fortunately, I can do that evenings and weekends. Clara knows I need something of my own, a skill I can earn my own money with."

John was impressed. He had rarely heard Harriet think long term like this. "Well, I live in a house full of women. If you ever want to visit, bring up your hat samples and maybe you will get some clients."

"Hmmmm…a whole house full of women, and you end up obsessed with a man? This isn't the John I know!" Harriet pulled her hand away and got up. "Come on, let's go back for some lunch."

* * *

John got to London in the early evening, and took his time unpacking his bag. It had been a good break, a chance to reset. Rethink his whole life.

He would try reducing his time in the lab to just Tuesdays and Thursdays again, and see how it went. He was determined to just treat Sherlock like a friend, like he had before. No more obsessing over him, no more sneaking around the house. No more allowing inappropriate thoughts about him.

* * *

"So, are there a lot of potential clients here tonight, Sally?" John sipped his wine as he surveyed the crowded room. The ballroom was crowded as it always was for the monthly ball.

She looked lovely tonight, in a dress of dark brown, getting her fair share of admiring glances.

"Four only." She replied, giving John a smile. She pointed the men out to him.

John nodded. "So, after Sherlock screens them, approves them, how are they matched with a consort? Is it based on availability or your assessment of who may be compatible?"

Sally chuckled. "A combination of things. Sherlock is very good at reading people, and he will pull me aside to discuss the men. For the ones he approves, he will already have the names of a couple consorts that would suit the client best. I introduce the client to them, and check in with everyone later. There is usually mutual interest between the client and one of the consorts."

"He's that good at reading them?" John asked.

Sally grinned. "It's amazing, isn't it? He rarely gets it wrong. Most initial pairings last the whole time the client comes to visit us. They find the other consorts attractive, but the consort they are with fits their needs so well, they rarely request a different one."

John chuckled. "Maybe he should set up a match-maker business as well. He could find me a wife."

Looking him up and down, assessing, Sally chuckled. "I didn't realize you were looking, Doctor."

John shrugged. "I'm getting older, and I'm not running around other countries anymore, thank God. It's something that I think about occasionally. Don't you?"

Her eyes crinkled up mischievously. "Is that a proposal, Doctor? Do you think we would get on?"

John couldn't deny she was attractive and he liked her intelligence and humor. "Frankly, no. We both have strong personalities, and I think we would battle each other a lot. You'd probably be the victor, and I'd be a weak, hen-pecked husband. Saying 'Yes, dear' and holding your pocketbook for you."

Sally burst out laughing at that. "You're probably right." She gave him a fond look. "So, you prefer a sweet, innocent woman who won't fight with you constantly? How about Molly? You seem to get along quite well."

They both looked over at the woman, looking pretty in an aqua dress. "We are great friends, but her heart is already taken, I think."

Sally followed Molly's admiring gaze, chuckling when she saw it was on Sherlock. "Ah, I see what you mean. Yes, that man does have a pile of hearts at his feet, doesn't he? I can't tell you the amount of correspondence I go through daily about him."

"That bad?" John asked the young woman.

She rolled her eyes. "They send me letters, begging for me for an appointment with him. They send him love letters, ranging from sweet to steamy. Gifts, flowers, chocolates, clothing, jewels, you name it. Even marriage proposals. Promises of travel and fine houses, as if he couldn't afford to do that himself, if he wanted."

John nodded, his stomach sinking. Sherlock could have anyone. Rich, attractive, perfect people. Everyone wanted him. It was nothing novel to him.

Sherlock knew it too. He worked the crowd, flirting and being charming, making everyone want him even more. Seeing how much he was desired just made them all want him more. John shuddered to think how much his clients paid for an appointment. It must be hundreds of pounds a night. Maybe even thousands.

Coming back from the washroom, John got another glass of wine. He hung back, watching the crowd, avoiding looking at Sherlock anymore. Cutting back his contact with him hadn't killed his ridiculous feelings about him. Maybe he needed to do more.

"Hi there." A woman stepped closer to John. She was around his height, with blond hair and dark eyes.

John returned her greeting. "I'm John Watson."

"Mary Morstan." She replied. John liked her confidence, and her intelligent eyes.

"So, what brings you here tonight?" John asked. Strange women weren't that common in the house. Sally had already pointed out the potential clients, so she wasn't one of those.

Mary chuckled. "Someone I work with was coming and invited me along. It's a good party to meet many influential people."

John's eyebrows rose a little. "What kind of work do you do, Miss Morstan?"

Her smile tilted up on one side. "Hmmm...I get the feeling you have a military background, is that correct, Mr. Watson?"

John chuckled. Had he just met the female version of Sherlock? Was she going to read him as easily? "Um, yes. I was an army doctor."

"So, Dr. Watson, I'm sure you can understand there are military maneuvers that are better handled on a small scale, than marching a huge army in." Her gaze was direct.

His eyebrows rose again. "Yes, of course."

"Let's just say I work in that area. I travel a lot." Mary said coyly.

John smiled. She was quite an interesting woman. "That must get lonely at times."

She nodded, taking a sip of her drink. "Quite. It is good to be back in England, even if it will only be for a week or two."

"You'll have to savor the familiar things while you are here. I missed the fish and chips so badly when I was away. Ate it every day for weeks when I got back." John chuckled.

They chatted easily, John finding her quite interesting. When she suggested a walk in the garden for some air, he readily agreed. A quick kiss behind the gazebo grew heated very quickly.

"Mary, I live here, you know. My room isn't far away..." John pulled back to say, hoping he wasn't being too forward.

Mary kissed him hard in response. "Let's go."

* * *

After that first night, he went to see her at her hotel. The night of a ball was always busy, so things might not be noticed as much. But to have her back in the house again would draw attention.

John was glad to get out of the house more, as well. He moved his appointments to earlier in the day, and was often done before 2 pm. He spent the afternoons with Mary, in her hotel room bed, and then eating dinner out. He rushed to get back in time for evening check ups.

He had sent Sherlock a note, a vague one. Simply said that a friend was in town for a short while, so he wouldn't be coming to the lab. He got no reply, and hadn't seen Sherlock since the ball. It reminded John of his first weeks in the house, when he never saw Sherlock.

He still saw Sherlock's client every night, but he was no longer torturing himself, imaging Sherlock with that person. He didn't go back to his room and touch himself for hours, imaging what Sherlock was doing.

John found he was pleasantly tired instead, and slept well. Maybe that entire previous sexual obsession had just been pent up sexual need. Being with Mary was satisfying it.

It was a pity she would be leaving soon. They both agreed to see each other, next time she was in town. John had no illusions about her. She wasn't interested in settling down.

Really, wasn't it all just a sign that John should get married? He was settled enough now that he wanted a stable relationship. Companionship, regular sex, sharing their lives. Someone to build a good life with, grow old with.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: John is a bit confused by his feelings. It may take a little while for him to figure things out.

-Brighton: It is generally agreed to be the unofficial "gay capital" of the UK, and records LGBT history in the city since the 19th century. Brighton Pride is the largest Pride event in the UK, celebrated at the start of August and attracting around 160,000 people every year. In a 2014 estimate, 11–15% of the city's population aged 16 or over is thought to be lesbian, gay or bisexual.

-Sodomites/ Sapphists / Sapphic: Terms for LGBTQ people has evolved a lot over the years. In the 1860s, the terms homosexual, lesbian and gay were not commonly used yet. The word lesbian is derived from the name of the Greek island of Lesbos, home to the 6th-century BCE poet Sappho, who wrote about the beauty of women and proclaimed her love for girls. Before the term 'lesbian' came out around 1875 or so, they were sometimes called Sapphic (derived from Sappho). Sodomy can refer to many 'unnatural acts' done by men or women, but 'sodomite' usually referred to homosexual male. It is from the biblical tale of Sodom and Gomorrah.

-Sarsaparilla: This is a soft drink from the 19th century, mostly popular in the US. It was available in the UK after 1844, often a non-alcoholic drink choice. It was featured as an alternative beverage in the temperance movement, that grew from the 1820 in both the US and UK. There was a push for prohibition in many countries, but only the US had it in place from 1920-1933.

-Wonderland: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (1865) by Lewis Carroll was popular from it's first run. Amongst it's avid first readers were Queen Victoria and the young Oscar Wilde. It has never been out of print, and has been translated into over 174 languages.

-Milliner: Hats were a mandatory accessory for hundreds of years, and often denoted social status. The term 'milliner' comes from the Italian city of Milan, where the best quality hats were made in the 18th century. It was traditionally a woman's occupation, with the milliner not only creating hats and bonnets but also choosing lace, trimmings and accessories to complete an outfit. Over the 19th century, the hat styles grew in style types and became very elaborate. Hats still play a part in the horse racing events like at the Royal Ascot in Britian and the Kentucky Derby in the US.


	11. Chapter 11

John felt odd, standing at Sherlock's door. Should he knock before entering? Surely they were friends now, beyond that. Weren't they?

Deciding to act normal, John just entered and walked straight to the lab.

Sherlock looked up as he entered, his eyes scanning over John from head to toe, and then he turned back to his microscope. "Oh, so you're back." His tone was flat. Dismissive.

"Um, yeah." John pushed a hand through his hair, feeling uncomfortable. He changed into his lab coat, and looked around his workstation. It hadn't been touched, at all. He had left some chopped dandelions in a sieve to drain, and they were all dried out, stuck to it. The beaker below had some sap in it, but it had dried into a dark stain. Sherlock had obviously not worked on it in his absence.

Shrugging his shoulders, John washed the equipment, leaving it to soak in water overnight to get the dried vegetation off.

"Sherlock," John said softly, not wanting to startle him when he was concentrating so hard. "Um, I need some more dandelions. Do you think I could use your street urchins?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Sure." He didn't look up.

"Um, do you have a way I can reach them?" John could tell Sherlock was in a bad mood, so didn't want to ask for too much.

"It's not like they have a home address you can send a letter to, John. They're street urchins." Sherlock drawled.

John huffed. Sherlock was being deliberately irritating. "Do you have a name, a contact person, anything?"

Sherlock glanced over at John, and then back at his work. "I can't remember."

Bullshit. His memory was fantastic.

"Fine," John growled. He got up and put his suit coat back on. "I'll figure it out. I'll be back when I get enough dandelions for processing."

"Suit yourself..." He heard Sherlock mumble as he left.

* * *

It had been a bit rainy the past week, and John spent the next few days in his oldest pair of boots and a thick sweater, hiking far and wide through the mud. At the end of it all, he only had a measly collection of the scraggliest dandelions, and he was tired and grouchy.

The next afternoon, he went into the lab, his mood still cloudy. It wasn't improved by Sherlock barely acknowledging him, before returning to his microscope.

Rolling his eyes, John worked on his weeds, and it wasn't long before they were chopped and draining. He picked up the dirty equipment, to carry it to the sink. With his hands full, John turned, and Sherlock was right there, in the way.

"Sherlock!" John complained, struggling to keep hold of everything. "Get out of the way."

Instead he straightened, standing even taller, looking down his nose at John. Challenging him.

Huffing, John stepped around him and dropped the equipment into the sink, grinning at the loud noise it made. As he washed up, he could see Sherlock glaring his way out of the corner of his eye. He didn't bother reacting to it, and eventually the brat spun away with a swirl of his robe.

The next day was no better. There wasn't much sap from the dandelions, and Sherlock bumped his arm when he was transferring it to a beaker, so John spilled some on the sleeve of his lab coat.

"Bloody Rantallion!" John exclaimed, jumping back and almost spilling the rest. He set down the container, and rubbed a rag against his clothing. "Can't you watch where you are walking?"

"Perhaps this lab isn't big enough for us both." Sherlock plunked down onto his stool, crossing his long legs, his eyes daring John to respond.

"It should be big enough for twenty people. As it is, there's hardly room for me and your over-blown sense of self-importance." John grumbled, stirring sulphur and zinc into his sap.

Sherlock spun around, facing his petri dish, and picking up a pipette. "No one is forcing you to come here, Dr. Watson."

With a sweep of his arm, John smiled as the glassware broke on the floor, a mess of wilted weeds and sap everywhere. "Fine, Mr. Holmes. I'll leave."

It felt quite satisfying to stomp out, slamming the door as he left the wing.

* * *

It took a couple days to cool down. John ended up going on some long rides, almost getting lost in his distracted state. It was strange how Sherlock could just push his buttons so easily, it hardly took a glare or a word to incite John. He was usually better at controlling his temper, usually a slow burn that took a lot to boil over.

As he finished up his afternoon appointments, there was a knock on the door. Billy passed him a note.

 **Sorry I was such an ass. The lab is available to you, now and always. – SH**

John's hand shook as he pushed the note into his pocket, and sat down.

* * *

John entered the lab and found it empty. It looked surprisingly clean, no sign of broken glass or dandelion parts on the floor.

At John's workstation, there was his normal set up, but with the first step done. Sherlock must have had his helpers collect weeds and he processed them the day before. John had a good amount of sap to work with. It was a very kind peace offering.

Changing into his lab coat, John felt much better about being back now. Sherlock must have just been in a bad, bad mood. It happened to everyone occasionally. Now, if he noticed Sherlock like that again, John would either ask if he wanted to talk or give him some space.

John was getting quite good at his process now, making consistent products of a good quality. He was still tweaking a few variables, trying to lower the sulphur content without losing much strength.

About an hour later, he had finished his test run, leaving the samples to cure. There was still quite a bit of sap left over. It seemed a shame to waste it.

Looking it over, John got an idea. Something to surprise Sherlock with, if he could keep it out of the lab until it was done.

* * *

Sherlock was hard at work when he returned a couple days later. John did his normal things, and soon had a dozen condoms in his latest formulation completed.

"What's different about this batch?" Sherlock was suddenly standing right beside John, in that wizard way of his.

John still startled when he did that, but at least this time he didn't drop or spill anything. "Sherlock, have you ever heard of personal space? Back off a step or two, OK? I feel like you'll make me trip, standing so close."

Sherlock gave an exaggerated pained look as he took a half-step back. He looked pointedly at John's work, signalling for him to answer his question.

"These are low in sulphur. I need to test them, make sure they are strong enough." John picked one up, and got his funnel. Pretty soon, he laid the condom full of water on a towel.

Before he could say anything, Sherlock picked it up. He held the distended orb, squeezing it with his long fingers.

"Sherlock, put that down! You are going to break it." John snapped.

With a raised eyebrow, Sherlock tossed the water condom back to John. Scrambling to put both hands out, John caught it as gently as he could. It didn't break.

"Oh, sorry…," John grinned up at Sherlock, moving the orb back and forth between his hands. "I guess they are stronger than I thought they would be. This is great."

And just as he said that, the condom broke, sending a shower of water over his arm and soaking one of his trouser legs.

Sherlock turned away, shoulders shaking with laughter.

John huffed, and picked up another condom. He got it filled with water, but it burst as he transferred it to the towel. "Crap!" This formulation obviously wasn't strong enough. More sulphur was needed. "Well, I might as well just chuck these all out."

"Wait, don't do that. I have an idea." Sherlock stepped closer, putting a hand on John's arm to stop him.

Looking up, John could only laugh at the mischievous glint in those light green eyes.

* * *

"I'm going to see if I can get this one past the fountain." John laughed, looking down and trying to get a good feel for the distance. He pulled his arm back and threw hard.

The water condom flipped end over end, arching up before descending. It hit the edge of the fountain, bursting water everywhere.

"Not bad." Sherlock was already lifting his arm. His throw looked good, but the condom hit the gravel a few feet closer to them than John's.

Shaking his head, Sherlock grabbed another orb from the basin. "I think we need a better target. I should get Sally to tell Anderson to come by."

Leaning over the edge of the balcony, John peered down at the front steps. It would be pretty easy to drop a water condom on someone knocking on the door.

Just as he thought that, the door opened and Greg stepped out, his hands on his hips. "Oy! What are you two doing up there?"

Two water condoms landed on him seconds later. Sherlock and John grinned at each other.

Greg glared up at them, sputtering and slicking back his wet hair off his face. A second later, he spun around, slamming the front door hard.

It turned out Greg had the best throwing arm. John swore repeatedly that he would have done better before his injury. Sherlock sniffed, and said he was too busy reading to play much sport in school.

* * *

John felt relieved that their boyish silliness with the water condoms seemed to have made things more normal between them. It had been such a range of emotions the last few weeks. John, with all his erotic thoughts about Sherlock and his clients, then being away from him while he spent time with Mary. Then those days when they had both been grouchy and irritated with each other. John couldn't believe that he had called his friend, his boss, rude names and deliberately broken equipment. It had taken a while, but they were back to being friends.

He still had the occasional carnal thought about Sherlock, mostly from just being in close quarters with him in the lab most afternoons. Sherlock sometimes let out a pleased hum, getting excited about his research, and John always noticed it. Found himself looking at Sherlock a bit too much, tracing over his ass when he bent over, his long legs stretched out when he leaned back, thinking. His dark curls, often mussed up by his hands and needed to be smoothed down. Wanting to reach up and rub away a mark on his pale skin.

John had gotten very good at catching himself when he was noticing Sherlock in that way, and had become adept at distracting himself. He would turn away, and get busy with his project, or think about the opening paragraph of his favorite Dickens novel. Usually by the time he was trying to remember the last line, Sherlock had stopped doing whatever had caught his attention in the first place.

 _OK, I can handle this._ John thought to himself, and felt he could manage coming to the lab most days.

He was so glad he had followed Harriet's advice. It would have been awful if he had grabbed Sherlock's hands back then, confessing his feelings and how much he wanted Sherlock. Sherlock got that constantly from clients, and people who wanted desperately to be with him. It would have just made Sherlock uncomfortable, probably make him regret letting John use the lab. Would have screwed up their fragile peace, their friendship. He wrote his sister about it, and she congratulated him for getting past this rough time.

* * *

Sherlock was wearing light grey pin-striped trousers, with a white dress shirt, standing near a window to look out. The afternoon sun made his skin almost glow, and John caught his breath at how good he looked.

"Hey Sherlock." John said, trying for a normal tone as he put on his lab coat. He kept his eyes on his work, no matter how much he wanted to look back. _It was the best of times, it was the worst of times_... John went through the words as he pulled out his materials.

. _..it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.._. John got out a cutting board and a sharp knife. He unwrapped a package of long pointy leaves, slicing along their thick edge.

"What are you working on?" Sherlock was right beside John, disregarding his requests for personal space again.

.. _.it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity._.. John sighed, only glancing quickly at the tall man at his side. "Um, it's a balm...something to treat burns for the cooks and other minor injuries."

But Sherlock wasn't moving away, still standing close, too close, watching as John spread the thick leaf open and scraped out the white gel inside.

. _..it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness._.. "Um, Sherlock, do you have any almond oil? I need a couple teaspoons or so, to keep this from oxidizing." When in doubt, get Sherlock to go find something. That should keep him busy for a few minutes, give John some breathing room.

"I think so." Sherlock walked over to a cupboard, looking over the labels of the various vials. He bent over, examining some bottles on the lower shelf. John indulged in a long, lingering look at his perfectly tailored trousers, before turning back to his work.

He was back when John was finishing with the second leaf. His eyes were interested as he watched John mix the oil into the gel. John scooped up some of the mixture, putting it into a small glass jar and closing it.

"Here, I'll help." Sherlock leaned against John to reach for one of the empty jars, and John inhaled sharply in surprise. Feeling Sherlock pressed up against him, the warmth of his body, his sandalwood soap scent...it sent a pang of arousal through John.

John stepped away, trying to keep focused on his task and not the oh-so-tempting man beside him.

"What are you muttering?" Sherlock asked, dipping his head to look at John, a slight smile on his lips. He looked so good, was so close...

John realized that he had said the next part of the paragraph out loud. "Oh, um... '.. _.it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair._..'"

Sherlock's eyes sparked with recognition. "'... _we had everything before us, we had nothing before us_...'" His voice drawled the words slowly, and John looked helplessly at his mouth as he said them.

John sighed. Now he would be thinking about Sherlock when he thought about that paragraph. He'd have to find another quote to memorize and use for distraction purposes.

Reaching for another jar, his hand bumped against Sherlock's, reaching for the same jar. When he scooped up more gel, Sherlock stepped close to do the same. He was just there, everywhere...

John tried breathing calmly, searching for the next words in his paragraph and coming up empty. This wasn't good, not good.

 _Go, go, leave._.. Alarms were going off now, and John knew he was reaching the edge of his control. All his carefully constructed defenses against Sherlock were crumbling, weak against all this.

John lowered his face, putting everything down, and turned fast to go. To leave the lab. It was the only thought he was focusing on now.

But as he often was lately, Sherlock was close, in his way. John bumped into him hard, sending them both off balance and Sherlock's hands grabbed John's upper arms to stabilize himself with a muttered "Oof!"

The contact clicked John's old army training, a surge of adrenaline zipping through his body. Without even thinking, John put his hands on Sherlock's waist and lifted the man, pushing him hard against the wall. Sherlock slid down slightly, his mouth open in surprise, gasping.

"I told you, stay out of my way." John growled into his face, glaring at the other man. Sherlock, so close, looking down at him with those wide green eyes, and with his hands on John... It was too much, too much...

Sherlock's eyes darkened, his gaze falling to John's mouth, looking a bit wrecked, still breathing fast. He looked so good, so close, still pinned against the wall by John's hands on his waist. John wasn't thinking straight, as he leaned in, taking that mouth, hard.

Sherlock gasped against his lips, and John just groaned and moved closer, pressing his chest against Sherlock's as he deepened the kiss. He wasn't gentle, greedily kissing the way he had wanted to for so long. One hand went up to the back of Sherlock's head, fisting into those curls to tilt him to an even better angle for his mouth.

With a stifled groan, John pulled back, looking at Sherlock. His eyes were a bit unfocused, his lips still parted and tempting John to kiss them some more.

The reality of what he had just done crashed down on him. John straightened up with a curse, pushing Sherlock away hard, and practically ran out of the lab.

* * *

In his own room, John tore off his lab coat, and threw it into the corner of the room. He sunk down onto the bed, pushing his hands through his hair.

"Shite, shite, shite…" John closed his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts swirling around his head. In only a few minutes, he had destroyed everything. Not only had he shoved Sherlock against a wall, he had taken advantage of his stunned state and kissed him. Hard.

How long until Greg knocked on the door, with a bunch of his footmen, and waited while John packed up his possessions and they escorted him out? There was no way he could apologize and have this forgiven. He had totally overstepped everything. Sherlock was his friend, his boss, and what he had done was unforgivable.

The whole scene replayed again and again in his mind, and John shook his head. How could he have been such an idiot? Sherlock could have his pick of anyone he wanted. He didn't want to have some poor, short doctor pawing at him because he dared to stand too close. Those few minutes meant that he was now out of work.

Where would he sleep tonight? He pictured knocking on Mike's door, his case in hand, seeing his look of disappointment. Being a burden who had botched up the great opportunity Mike had given him.

 _Stupid, stupid_ …. John sighed, getting off the bed. Opening up the wardrobe, he pulled out his old suitcase, unlatching it and setting it on his chair. Might as well start packing now.

There was a knock on the door. John's stomach clenched. That hadn't taken long.

Shoulders slumping in resignation, John walked to the door, pausing a second to brace himself. He opened it wide.

 _Sherlock_. John was frozen in the doorway, blinking.

"Don't just leave me standing here, John." Sherlock said neutrally, his gaze direct, revealing nothing.

Shaking himself out of his trance, John stepped back and waved for Sherlock to enter. _Sherlock, in my room._ This day was just getting stranger.

The room seemed even smaller than normal with Sherlock standing in the middle of it. It was a simple room, just a single bed, a wardrobe and a small desk in front of the window. Sherlock looked at the open suitcase on the chair, and then at John with an arched eyebrow. He sat down on John's bed.

 _Sherlock, on my bed_. John moved the suitcase and sat down on the chair, feeling a bit numb.

"Sherlock… I'm so, so sorry for what happened before. I was completely wrong, completely inappropriate. I don't know what came over me…" John rushed to say, just wanting to make any amends he could.

The tall man nodded, his eyes on John's face, so quiet. What was he thinking? Why wasn't he acting mad? Yelling at John? He wasn't one who held back on telling people what he thought of them.

Swallowing hard, John waved towards the suitcase. "Look, I'll pack and leave tonight. No need to fire me. I'll go quietly."

Sherlock's green eyes went to the suitcase, and then back to John. Still, so quiet. Watching, waiting. What did he want? More of an apology? For John to grovel?

John ran his hands over his face. "Look, I don't know what else I can say so you'll understand how awful I know my actions were. I never should have kissed you like that…"

Sherlock leaned closer, his eyes still so big, the motion cutting off John's fumbling apology. "How should you have kissed me?"

Speechless, John just blinked at Sherlock. Had he heard him right? Did he mean…?

Heart pounding, John moved to sit beside Sherlock on the bed. The taller man turned to face him, a welcoming motion, not shrinking away at all. Slowly, John raised a hand, placing it against Sherlock's jaw. He stayed still, his eyes still on John's, barely breathing.

Nervous, but knowing there was no way he would let this chance go, John slid his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, the short hair on his nape tickling along his fingers. He pulled Sherlock forward, leaning in until their mouths were only a hair's breadth away from each other, pausing there. Giving Sherlock a chance to pull back, stop this, if he wanted to. He didn't.

Closing his eyes, John leaned in to brush his lips over Sherlock's. Lightly. Feeling them soften, open. Inviting John to do more. He did. Pressing firmer kisses against those lovely, full lips, short kisses that had Sherlock leaning closer for more. John grinned a little to himself at that, that tiny reaction, and nibbled at Sherlock's bottom lip.

With a groan, Sherlock's hands grabbed John's head, and he deepened the kiss. John happily kissed him back, glorifying in it. Getting lost in it.

Somehow, they were laying back on the bed, side by side, the kisses long and perfect. John could do this forever.

Pulling back, he looked at the man laying beside him, his hair mussed by John's hands, his lips swollen from the kissing. Looking happy and so beautiful.

Sherlock's mouth tilted up a little on one side. "'… _we were all going direct to Heaven_ …'"

Leaning his forehead against Sherlock's, John gave a wry smile back. "'… _we were all going direct the other way…_ '"

Giving a small scoff, Sherlock's smile was warm and tender. "Well, at least we'll be going there together."

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: More coming soon...

Rantallion: A weirdly specific Victorian word meaning "one whose scrotum is longer than his penis." It not used much anymore, but I think it's deserving of a revival.

Skin Balm: John is making a soothing balm out of aloe vera gel and almond oil.

Dickens: This is the first paragraph out of 'A Tale of Two Cities'.


	12. Chapter 12

There was a knock on his office door. John opened it to find Sherlock, a hint of a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Mr. Holmes! Do you have a medical concern? Come on in." Maybe John was laying it on thick, as he waved Sherlock in and shut the door. Who knew who might have seen Sherlock?

He turned to glare at the berk. "What are you doing here? We agreed that we were going to keep this," John waved a hand between them, "to ourselves. Act normal in the house. You have never come here before."

Sherlock smirked. "Can't I see the house doctor if I have a medical concern?"

John rolled his eyes, even though Sherlock looked quite amazing. The silk robe tied over his clothes was a deep aubergine, with a pattern of swooping black and white birds. The color set off his pale skin and dark hair. "Fine. What seems to be the problem?"

"It's my elbow. I was playing violin, and it felt sore." He undid the sash on his robe, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

John swallowed hard, and had to force himself to move. It would have been easy, far too easy, to watch as the attractive man slowly stripped off his shirt. "Um...ah...wait. Stop. Just roll up your sleeve, Sherlock."

Giving a little huff of annoyance, Sherlock undid his right cuff, and soon had most of his arm exposed. It reminded John of the time he had examined his burn, so long ago.

Taking a deep breath, John stepped closer. He probed the joint, looking for sensitivity, and then lifted his arm to move it back and forth. "Does this hurt?" John looked into Sherlock's eyes, seeing the heat in them.

He shrugged. "A little. Perhaps it isn't as bad as I thought."

"Well, maybe lay off playing for a few days. Give it a rest." John let go of his arm, stepping back. Being this close made his heart beat faster.

Sherlock pouted. "That's it? I don't even get a kiss to make it feel better?"

Chuckling, John took his arm again and lifted it up. He leaned down and kissed the thin skin of Sherlock's inner elbow, smiling a little when he heard his breath catch. He only meant to give the one kiss, but found himself kissing down the fair skin of his inner arm. It was so smooth, smelling lightly of his soap, so warm.

With a final kiss on his wrist, John let go and straightened up. "There. I hope it feels all better now."

"I feel better in a few places, Doctor." Sherlock's voice had a raspy edge to it, and John felt his own arousal ping in response.

John let out his breath. "You better go, Mr. Holmes. My other patient will be here soon." Any minute, they could be knocking on the door, in fact.

Rolling down his sleeve, Sherlock got off the examination table, his warm eyes steady on John. He stepped close, right into John's personal space. "I'll leave after a proper kiss goodbye."

It was too much. John's good intentions disappeared and he grabbed the back of Sherlock's head to drag him down for a thorough, hard kiss. The taller man moaned, sinking right into it, his lips just as eager and demanding.

John felt Sherlock's hands under his lab coat, pulling at his tucked in shirt. To have him touch his bare skin would be far, far too much. John quickly grabbed his wrists, holding them against the wall on either side of Sherlock's head, pinning him there.

"Behave, Sherlock." John growled against his lips, and couldn't resist kissing him teasingly, lightly, until Sherlock moved his head forward to make them harder. John stepped one leg forward, between Sherlock's, and kissed him deeply.

Hearing a noise in the hallway, John sprang back, breathing fast. _Shite_. Anyone would take one look at either of them and know they had been snogging.

John ran his fingers through his hair, and splashed water on his face, trying to cool it down. He dried off, and straightened his clothing. By the time he was done, Sherlock looked pretty put together again as well.

Just shaking his head, John opened the office door. "Well, I hope that helped. If your bowing arm keeps bothering you, it would probably be best if I come to your wing and watch you play. Maybe you are over extending the joint or something."

"Thanks, Doctor. As long as you wear your lab coat and bring your doctor bag when you come." Sherlock said softly as he stepped out, his mischievous look back.

The old comment Sherlock had once made about people having medical fetishes popped into John's mind, and he smiled as he shut the door.

Is that what Sherlock had basically admitted to having? Was he turned on by 'playing doctor'? It had never been something John considered, always striving to keep his professional and personal lives separate. But just for fun, he could see playing doctor like they had, but letting it go further. Having Sherlock strip, finally seeing his whole body. Examining him, like a normal physical, but letting his fingers and lips drag over his bare skin.

The fantasy was interrupted by a knock. John buttoned up his lab coat, glad for how long it was.

* * *

"Sherlock, didn't I warn you about personal space? Back off, will you?" John's hand shook as he tried measuring the zinc, feeling crowded.

"Perhaps you need to warn me again." Sherlock leaned close, whispering into John's ear.

Spinning around on his stool, John looked up at the tall man who was standing so close. "You want me to pick you up, and shove you into a wall again?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes heating up.

Standing up, John guided Sherlock to the nearest stool, and stepped between his legs, pinned with the counter at his back. "You like it a bit rough, do you?" He liked seeing Sherlock from this vantage point, looking up at him.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes on John's mouth, silently asking for a kiss.

John pushed his hand into Sherlock's hair, and tightened it into a fist, pulling back to make him expose the long line of his throat. "You like this too, then? When I pull on your hair?"

"Yes..." It was a breathy moan.

John kissed the way up Sherlock's long, delicious neck, feeling the way he responded to his touch. He stopped at his ear, letting him feel his moist breath against his skin. "Didn't we agree to take all this slowly?"

"You agreed." Sherlock said, a little of a whine in his tone.

John let go of Sherlock's hair, straightening up, and stared down at the brat. "Sherlock, you know I've never done this, any of this, with a man before. We discussed it, the first night, in my bedroom. I can only do this, do this properly, no regrets, if we take it slow."

Sherlock pouted slightly, sighing. "I know, I know. But I keep thinking about you, wanting you." He looked confused and frustrated, and part of John just wanted to haul the git into his bedroom, and get naked. Give them both what they had wanted so long. But he knew it would be too much, too fast.

Despite his attraction, and longing for Sherlock, deep down he knew he wasn't really ready yet. It was a strange mix of feelings, churning around in there. Things John didn't think he would have to deal with. He had been so sure that Sherlock would never want him back; John hadn't delved into it much yet.

To have Sherlock so willing and eager, so damn tempting made it hard to think straight. Whenever they were alone, Sherlock was practically his shadow, standing so close. Provoking in his little way, upsetting John's composure until he gave in, kissing him desperately, wrapped tight in each other's arms.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, and got off the stool. "Fine. I'll give you your precious space." He stood straight, looking down at John with a proud tilt to his chin. "As long as you come for dinner Sunday. The whole night, just the two of us."

"The whole evening." John corrected, nodding in agreement. He could have a relaxed meal with Sherlock, maybe cuddle up and talk after, kiss a little. But there was no way he could spend the night.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth tightened at John's change, but he nodded. He stole a quick kiss before spinning away, stomping over to his end of the lab.

* * *

John pushed at Sherlock's shoulder, breathing hard, and jumped a little when he nipped the skin of his neck before rolling to cuddle against John's side. "That better not have left a mark." John smiled as he said it, rubbing his hand over it.

"Mmmm I hope it does, and I'll see it. Know I put it there." Sherlock ran his fingers through John's short hair, and John leaned into the touch.

John shifted down slightly, resting his head against Sherlock's chest, feeling him still stroking and playing with his hair. This really was the perfect sofa, so wide and comfortable for both of them. The fire gave everything a warm glow. He was full from a wonderful meal, and relaxed from a couple glasses of wine.

"I love this." John said, giving Sherlock's chest a little squeeze. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so happy.

Sherlock leaned down, and kissed the top of John's head. "Me too." His hand slid down to his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze back.

He had been a perfect host all evening, making John feel comfortable. Encouraging him to take off his suit jacket and vest, loosen his tie. Sherlock was in his normal ensemble, dress shirt, trousers and a silk robe. They talked about a wide variety of topics over dinner, enjoying their roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

The kisses on the sofa later weren't rushed. It was the first time they could really take their time. Slow, sweet kisses that heated up to more intense ones. John frequently paused things, needing a break. Sherlock had been a gentleman about it, respecting John's pace. It made John relax, feeling cared for like that.

It was, of course, frustrating too. John had been hard for hours, or so it felt like, and Sherlock's eyes were definitely warm. John had sworn to himself to stick to only kissing, clothing staying on, tonight. They needed time to get used to being together, not getting lost in sex.

"How many of these robes do you have?" John ran his hand back and forth over the fine silk. He had rarely seen Sherlock wear the same one twice. This one was a rich red, with a faint gold pattern.

Sherlock chuckled, and John liked hearing it this way, with his ear against his chest. "Too many to count. A friend knows I have a weakness for them."

John stiffened slightly at that. _They were gifts from a client? An admirer?_

Sherlock brushed his hand down John's back, soothing him. "An old friend I knew when I was in India. He stayed out there all this time, exporting goods from the region back to England. He gets a good price for me."

John relaxed again. "Can you tell me about your childhood, Sherlock? I don't know much about you."

"Hmmm...as long as you return the favor."

Scoffing, John glanced up at him. "You probably know everything already. You are so bloody good at reading people."

Sherlock chuckled, sounding pleased. "Usually, yes. But I find it harder to read you lately..."

Turning onto his stomach, John braced on his elbows to look at Sherlock. "Really, why?"

Looking down, Sherlock's seemed to consider it. "Maybe it's knowing you better. Or just that my feelings are getting in the way."

John smiled, pushing up to kiss him a few times, before snuggling against Sherlock's side again. "OK, tell me about the adventures of young Sherlock."

"Once upon a time, there was a precocious brat...," Sherlock started.

"Some things never change." John said softly, just to bug him.

"Who lived in a big house with servants, a nanny, and a lovely garden to explore." John could tell that he was grinning from his teasing. "One day, without consulting him at all, his evil parents took him to a horrible dark, wet country. He was shifted off to boarding school, full of rich, wanker gits, and was expected to be just like all of them."

"How sad for our young hero!" John gave him a half-hug to continue.

Sherlock sighed. "He finished college, and was expected to do the Grand Tour, travelling around Europe like the other rich wankers for a year or so."

John could tell something had happened then, when Sherlock was in his early twenties. "Did he go to Europe? See the Parthenon and the Coliseum?"

Sherlock let out a deep breath. "Yes, he went, he saw, he conquered. But when all the other rich gits went home, ready to take up their family duties and be upstanding young men, our hero did not."

John's eyebrows rose. "You stayed in Europe?"

"Yes, caught up in all sorts of inappropriate activities. Demands from the family to return at once went unheeded."

 _What had Sherlock been involved in?_ John didn't feel comfortable probing for more. He suspected Sherlock had gotten involved with a man, and didn't want to leave him. His rich family probably wanted him to marry well, keep up connections with other powerful families, and Sherlock turned out to be unwilling.

"What happened?" John asked softly, glad to understand this mysterious man more.

Sherlock shifted slightly, turning on his side so he faced John. "I was eventually cut off, ostracized. No money, no family, in a strange country. I didn't have many ways to pay the bills."

John nodded, understanding. "So, you started in this business." He laid a hand along his cheek gently.

"And turned out to be surprisingly good at it." Sherlock chuckled. "A year later, I moved to London and started the first house, with Mrs. Hudson as the housekeeper. It grew from there."

It really was amazing. From having nothing to this mansion, all on his own. John looked at Sherlock closely. He was younger than John, probably not yet thirty. He had done all that in less than ten years.

"Ok, your turn." Sherlock said when John was quiet too long. He looked vulnerable, a little sad. Maybe he felt like he had said too much.

John wanted to take that expression off his face first. Reward him for being so open about his past. Leaning closer, he kissed Sherlock gently, softly. Kissed him until he made one of his pleased hums, and shifted closer. Opened his mouth, and flicked his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip. Groaned himself when Sherlock teased him back the same way.

It was at least ten minutes before they pulled back. John went to the washroom, Sherlock poured them so more wine.

Reclining back against the arm of the sofa, John sipped his wine and stared into the fire. Sherlock sprawled out along the length of the sofa, all six feet of him, pressing along John's side.

Chuckling, John reached down to toy with his hair. "Are you comfortable like that?"

Sherlock lifted his head, nodding. "It's how I wanted to lay, when you where here before."

Remembering that night, John smiled. It had been comforting, lying side by side, even though they hadn't been touching. This was better though.

"Talk. Or I'll find ways of making you talk." Sherlock grinned, the look in his eyes making John think his methods would be of the carnal variety.

John shrugged. "I didn't have it as fancy as you did, but we did OK. My father was a barber, and we lived in the flat above the shop."

Sherlock nodded, obviously interested.

"Growing up, I hung around the shop a lot, sweeping, cleaning. I liked the casual way men would talk, commenting on the newspaper. Of course, my father did work on sore teeth, extractions, and I helped him there, like a nurse." John continued, thinking back.

"I was thinking of becoming a doctor then, not sure how I would afford it. Someone suggested the army, since they gave medical training to soldiers." John sighed. "But then the second outbreak of cholera hit London."

Sherlock looked up, his face concerned.

John sighed. "Everyone was sick and dying. They brought carts down the street for people to load bodies onto. Graveyards were full, and you had to search to find a church to bury your loved ones. Everyone was terrified, didn't know what to do."

Sherlock took John's hand, holding it.

"It took my parents over a weekend, so fast." John turned away, fumbling to get his handkerchief from his pocket.

Shifting up, Sherlock passed him a clean one. Rubbed John's back as he blew his nose and collected himself.

Eventually, John settled back down, now with Sherlock's arm around his shoulders. "Um...we...my older sister and I...we couldn't keep up the business. She was apprenticing as a seamstress, so had room and board elsewhere. We sold the business, and split the proceeds. It wasn't much, but I was able to go to medical school." John shrugged, dabbing his eyes again with the cloth.

It had been a hard time. He was suddenly on his own, just sixteen. His sister was busy with her own life, working long hard hours. He had gotten into a good school, living in a tiny bedsit, reading every book in the library. He knew he had to take care of himself, get a good profession.

"When I finished school, I didn't have the connections the other students did. Didn't have family money left to set up a practice. So, I ended up an army doctor." John shrugged. "You know the rest."

Sherlock sat up. "John, can I see your shoulder?" His eyes were gentle.

John smirked, trying to lighten the mood. "Is this just a ploy to get me to take my shirt off?"

Lifting his hands to his own buttons, Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Hey, I'm quite willing to take off my shirt too, just to make you feel more comfortable, of course."

"Oh, of course, only for that reason." John chuckled. He tilted his head slightly to the side, thinking. "OK, take your shirt off too."

Sherlock's eyes widened, clearly not expecting John's agreement to the suggestion. But he slowly started working on his buttons.

John's hands trembled slightly as he undid his own. They had already seen each other, bare-chested, after the fire. But it had been fast, and John had been so sick. This was so much different. They knew each other so much more now. Had shared so many kisses.

Sherlock stood up, taking off the red silk robe, and slowly working his shirt open. The firelight silhouetted him, a beautiful mysterious man in the shadows.

John undid his tie, throwing it to the side. His shirt was undone, but he made no move to take it off. He watched Sherlock, waiting. Breathless.

Opening his shirt, Sherlock pulled it off. He was only wearing black trousers, his feet bare. He looked wonderful.

Standing up, John took him in his arms, holding him tight. His heart was pounding, feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything. His attraction to this man, his feelings, being so vulnerable to him.

Pressing a small kiss to the side of John's neck, Sherlock pulled back. His long fingers were on John's shirt, and with a small nod of permission, he slipped it off.

His gaze was thorough, fascinated, and his fingertips traced over the bared skin. When he saw John didn't mind the scar being touched, he took his time with it, learning it.

John still had his hands on Sherlock's waist, holding himself steady under his soft touches. He moaned when Sherlock lowered his head and pressed his lips to the raised skin.

Getting bolder in his caresses, Sherlock's mouth kissed and explored John's shoulder, while his hands skimmed over the rest of him. John's hands went to Sherlock's bare back, warm from the fire, lost in it all.

Urging John back, Sherlock eased them onto the sofa. Kneeling with one leg between John's, Sherlock leaned down, exploring him thoroughly. Tasting, touching, kissing. Rubbing his whisker-rough cheek against John's stomach before licking along the bottom of his rib cage. Tracing along his collarbone with small kisses.

John was in a sensual fog, running his hands over Sherlock's back, his shoulders, down his arms. Occasionally, tugging on the back of his neck for Sherlock to meet him for a few heated kisses.

His hand slid lower, without meaning to, right over the delicious roundness of Sherlock's ass.

Groaning, Sherlock planted a kiss against John's neck, and let his hips drop, a firm brush of the front of their trousers together.

John froze, pulling his hands away from Sherlock. Suddenly aware of how fast he was breathing. Needing space, air…

Sherlock rolled off to the side. "Sorry, sorry...it's OK. Just breathe, John."

The soothing words and having some more space worked, calming him down. "No, I'm sorry, I know you didn't mean..."

"It's OK." Sherlock grinned down at John fondly, seeing he was back to himself.

John rolled his eyes. "Sheesh. It's not like I'm some blushing virgin or something. I don't understand why that happened."

Sherlock scoffed. "You are a virgin when it comes to this." He took John's hand, and put it on the front of his trousers.

John's breath caught, but he left his hand there. It was scary, but also so exciting. He shifted his hand, cupping him more fully, and saw Sherlock's eyes darken. This was for him, he was aroused by John. Poor, simple, average-looking John.

Giving a small smile, John moved his hand away. "Would it be OK if we just held each other for a bit before I go?"

Sherlock nodded, and gathered John close. It was different, skin against skin, but John relaxed into it. Sherlock did too, not pushing for more.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Hmmm... normally I don't write this fast. But it's a fun chapter. Thanks for reading, kudos, & comments!

-Sherlock's Repetitive Stress Injury: While editing this section, I thought that the soreness in his right arm might have come from another activity other than violin bowing. ;)

-Grand Tour: This was an educational rite of passage that many upper class men took after completing their education. They would take a few months to a few years to travel Europe, see great art, learn other languages and mingle with aristocrats in other countries. It flourished from 1660 until the end of the 19th century. The modern version is hostel backpacking trips, or the Gap Year.

-Barbers: Prior to the 19th century, barbers were also surgeons and dentists. Doctors, surgeons and dentists became professionals under governmental regulation by the end of the century. The British Dental Association wasn't formed until 1879. By 1921, the practice of dentistry was limited to those who were professionally qualified. Barbers pulled teeth before this, especially for the lower classes. I could have researched more about this, but a few looks at some of the equipment involved were enough for me.

-Cholera: This was a worldwide epidemic that killed by the thousands, wherever it hit. It spread through warm fecal-contaminated river waters and contaminated foods. Death could occur within hours without proper treatment, from profuse watery diarrhea, vomiting and leg cramps. The second outbreak in London was in 1849, and over 14,000 people died. Now, we know that cholera is treatable with oral re-hydration therapy and preventable with adequate sanitation and water treatment. There are still about 100,000 deaths a year from it.


	13. Chapter 13

John looked up at the blue sky, a tiny cloud the only one slowly moving across the large expanse. He sighed, feeling very relaxed.

"More wine?" Sherlock asked, sounding lazy and sleepy himself.

Sitting up, John shifted to lean against the tree. "No, I'm good."

Sherlock moved so his head was in John's lap, closing his eyes when John brushed the hair back from his face. He was like a cat, practically purring in pleasure from John's touch.

John smiled down at the handsome man, glad his eyes were closed and he could look his fill. It was a masculine face; a strong nose, broad forehead, prominent cheekbones. Those full lips he never seemed to tire of kissing. But his best feature was his eyes. They changed in color, from light green to an aqua, sometimes the other flecks of color seeming more apparent. Beyond their beauty, was the sharp mind reflected in them. Seeing so much. Showing his humor and intelligence, his emotions.

This whole day had been Sherlock's idea. Not telling John where they were going, just telling him to dress comfortably for being outside. They had taken the two-hour train ride to Salisbury, the only other occupant in their compartment an older man reading his newspaper. They had sat close, holding hands, looking out the window at the passing scenery.

After a ride in an open coach, they got here. John had heard about the ancient site, but had never visited before. They walked together through the ring of ancient stones, John dragging his fingers over them. They discussed the prevailing theories about how and why they were there.

Sherlock had eventually led him to a hill overlooking the stones. They had a picnic lunch of fruit, cheese and bread, all washed down with a crisp, white wine.

It was good being away from the house, out together in the world. Sherlock was dressed more like John, in a tweed suit of dark grey. He didn't get recognized by anyone today, that John noticed.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up at John. "May I ask you about something? It's a rather sensitive subject."

John's eyebrows went up. "Um, sure..." He wondered what it could be, possibilities jumping to mind as Sherlock sat up on their picnic blanket, wrapping his arms around his bent knees.

"This...what we have, is getting to be very important to me, John." Sherlock said softly, his eyes serious and direct.

John nodded. "I feel that way too. I never expected this to happen, but I'm glad it has."

Picking a long piece of grass, Sherlock played with it. He sighed. "Last night, you kind of froze up on me. I was wondering what happened."

John had known this would come up, sooner or later. It was good they were somewhere with no one around. Could talk about it. "I don't know. I've never had that happen before in an...intimate situation."

Throwing the grass to the side, Sherlock sat up straighter, crossing his legs. "Well, you have only been with women before. So obviously, I'm different than your regular type of partner. I'm a dirty homosexual whore."

"Sherlock!" John couldn't believe he had said that aloud, let alone called himself that.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock scoffed. "Save me your parlor room vapours. You are an army doctor who works in a brothel. Let's just talk clearly about this."

"Fine." John thought about the words. "You said 'homosexual'?" Start with the least loaded word, and work from there.

"It's a term some people use lately. I guess it sounds nicer than the term 'sodomites', seeing as how God destroyed them all with fire and brimstone." Sherlock gave a half-smile at that.

John chuckled, always enjoying the dark side of his humor. "Well, I'm not experienced in...homosexual...sex, obviously. But I'm a doctor and I know what happens. It is something I am curious about."

"You've had opportunities before, I'm sure. Why haven't you ever explored this?" Sherlock was quite conversational about it, making it easier for John to feel comfortable talking about it. "I don't get the feeling you are holding back because of religious views or family disapproval."

John shook his head. "No, I'm not that religious. And the only family I have left is my sister, and she is...um...homosexual." Was the term right for women also? John rarely talked about these things. No one did. "I've never had anything against it, but never felt interested in it. Until now. Until you."

Sherlock took his hand, holding it like he had on the train. Being together like this, talking so openly, was something so special. John hadn't been this honest and close with someone in a long time. He felt he could trust Sherlock.

Letting go, Sherlock took a long sip of wine, and took a deep breath before facing John again.

"I guess that leaves us with dirty whore. Which word shall we discuss first?" There was a tension about him now, and John could tell this talk wasn't easy for Sherlock, even if was striving to make it seem so. John's answers mattered to him. John mattered to him. It made him nervous for what was to come.

John huffed out a breath. "Dirty...I guess. Before coming to your house, my only experiences with prostitutes was being warned away from them. Being told they would give you diseases. In the army, there were the camp followers. I treated them occasionally. But I mostly saw the soldiers who had been with them."

John shook his head. "I have seen it as bad as it can be, Sherlock, and frankly it terrifies me."

"Is that why you work so hard on the condoms?" Sherlock asked, softly.

John nodded. "Prostitution is the oldest profession. It's not going away. And lust, sexual urges...they are powerful. There has to be some way to make it much safer."

"I agree. We have tried to make it as safe as possible at the house. Most of the consorts leave the house by choice, not due to poor health." Sherlock said calmly.

John looked at him, really looked at him. "Even with precautions, the diseases can still be caught, still spread. The more clients you have, the greater the risk."

Sherlock nodded. "That is why we limit it so much. Just five clients a week, in a controlled setting."

"That's over 250 clients a year, Sherlock!" John spoke a little louder than he intended, and looked away, trying to calm down.

"So, you worry that if you have sex with me, you will be exposed to venereal diseases." Sherlock said, his tone flat. "What if we used your condoms?"

John shook his head again. "How can I test if they block the tiniest microbes? Plus, they can break."

Sherlock jumped up, walking away fast, clearly agitated now. John was upset too. Talking about it was bringing to light all the thoughts he had pushed away, pushed down. He had been so caught up in his attraction to Sherlock, in him returning it. How could they deal with this?

John drank his wine, and poured another glass. He left Sherlock alone, giving him some space. Was this it then? Was it all over? Could they go back to only being friends? Could John still work in the house?

When Sherlock sat back down, cross-legged, he had a determined expression. "John, what I tell you now must just stay between us. Do you agree to this?"

John couldn't imagine what would need a warning like that, but nodded. "Yes, completely confidential."

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. "There is a reason the workers in the house are called 'consorts', John. To consort with someone merely means to spend time with them. You can consort with new friends."

"Consort with the enemy." John added, trying to lighten the tension.

"Exactly. In that context, there is no implication that sex is involved, is there?" Sherlock said, his eyes on John.

"No, I guess not."

"For clients who come to the house, they pay certain people to consort with them. They pay to spend time with them." Sherlock said carefully. "What happens during their time together, behind closed doors, is their own business."

John leaned forward. "Are you trying to tell me the consorts are NOT having sex with the clients?" His tone was incredulous.

Sherlock sat back, his eyes glowing at John's reaction and a small curve of a smile on his lips. "That is between the consorts and the clients. You would be surprised."

John shook his head. "That is such a load of shite. Why would clients be lining up to come back? It isn't to play patty-cake!"

Sherlock grinned at that. "I'm just saying that there are many things going on behind closed doors that are very unlikely to spread diseases. The consorts know it, and are very skilled at those things. How do you think Claire has stayed healthy so long in the business?"

"What do you do behind closed doors, Sherlock?" John asked, just really needing to know.

Sherlock sat up taller, his bearing proud. "I am paid very well for what I do there, John. I am the highest paid consort in the country. There is good reason for it."

Right then, John was not sitting with Sherlock, he was with The Courtesan. Confident, unashamed, proud. Mysterious and intriguing. And he felt attracted, curious. It was different than what he felt with the Sherlock he knew somehow.

Pulling himself out of that sensual spell, John glared at Sherlock. "But you can't deny there is sex occurring behind those closed doors, can you? I've heard it, Sherlock."

"Fine. There are clients and sex and money. I am a whore." He said the word defiantly. But then his posture relaxed, his eyes beseeching. "You know I don't feel about clients the way I do about you. There are no feelings involved." The Courtesan was gone. His Sherlock was back.

John was the one to stand up this time, walking away. Aggravated. How had he let this happen? He had feelings for a man who calmly admitted to being a whore. Who wanted to be with him, despite this.

It took a few minutes before John could sit down again. "Surely, Sherlock, you can see that sex is an intimate thing. You are sharing your body, your desires, with someone else."

"It's not like that for me with clients." Sherlock said softly, firmly.

John sighed. Could he really not understand this? "OK, hypothetical situation then. If we were together, lovers, in a relationship...," John could feel his cheeks warm at the thought, and dropped his gaze, "how would you feel if I had sex with other people?"

"You aren't like that. For you, you only have sex with people you care deeply about."

John shook his head. "Ideally, yes. But I've had sex with people I didn't know well. A few weeks ago, even."

"Mary." Sherlock said, a slight frown tightening his mouth.

Surprised, John's thoughts whirled. "How did you know about her?"

Sighing, Sherlock laid down on the blanket. "Not much happens in the house that I don't notice, John."

"OK, fine. So if we were together, you would be all right with me having sex with Mary when she's in town? You probably know that she isn't interested in a relationship, since she travels so much for her work." John watched Sherlock's face closely.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock sighed. "No, I wouldn't want that. But I'm not like that with my clients. You are comparing apples to oranges."

"What if I told you I was going to spend a couple hours with her, behind closed doors, but only give her a long massage and suck on her toes? No chance of really catching anything from her, and not having sex with her. That would be OK, right?" John was feeling tired of this whole conversation now. The more they talked, the less he felt like they would resolve it.

He missed when Sherlock moved, but suddenly he was pushing John flat on his back, looming over him. "No, that is not OK. Not at all." His eyes were intense, and John felt a surge of answering desire. Sherlock had never kissed him as hungrily before, holding nothing back. This time, his hips were right against John's, shifting to press together. There was no doubt this was a man kissing him, taking him apart, piece by piece.

Sherlock rolled off to the side with a muttered curse.

John's breathing calmed down. "Sherlock, it's like that for me. I can't be in any deep relationship with someone and not have it be exclusive. I can't share. I get too jealous, too possessive."

"I understand." Sherlock sighed. "So, you will only be with me if I stop being a whore. I can't do that, so we can't be together."

John sat up, looking down at Sherlock. "Why? Why can't you stop? Is someone forcing you to do it? Is it just as revenge against your family or something? You think the business will fail if you aren't on the menu? You can't just be doing it for the money. You seem to have enough for several lifetimes worth."

Sherlock sat up. "No, nothing like that, John." His voice was distant, dejected. "We better pack up. The carriage will be back soon to take us to the train."

The whole ride back, John stared out of the window. Sherlock kept his distance, and only spoke as needed. He was withdrawn and quiet.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Straight talk…

-Stonehenge: This ancient ring of massive standing stones was erected from 3000 BCE to 2000 BCE. It is an easy day trip from London, and many Victorians visited it. Now it gets about 800,000 visitors a year. It has only been roped off from the public since 1977. Earlier visitors often climbed on the stones and even chiseled off a chunk of stone as a souvenir.

-Parlor Room Vapors: In the Victorian era, women would sometimes have fainting spells or swoon, being called having a 'case of the vapors'. It may have been caused by the tight corsets they wore that constricted their breathing. Smelling salts were kept handy to revive them, in a small decorative container called a vinaigrette. It held a sponge soaked with ammonia dissolved with perfume in vinegar or alcohol.

-Homosexual: The first know appearance of the term in print was in 1869, in a German pamphlet arguing against a Prussian anti-sodomy law. I've used some artistic license in using in here, a couple years before that, assuming it could be used in other contexts before then. Heterosexual/homosexual became more popular after a popular book, 'Psychopathia Sexualis' was published in 1886 by Richard von Krafft-Ebing.

-Camp Followers: During the history of warfare up to the end of the 19th century, armies were followed by civilians, consisting of the wives and children of soldiers, and people providing informal army services, selling goods and services like cooking, laundry, nursing, prostitution, and liquor.

-Venereal Diseases: Until the 1990s, STIs were commonly known as venereal diseases, the word venereal being derived from the Latin word venereus, and meaning relating to sexual intercourse or desire, ultimately derived from Venus, the Roman goddess of love. "Social disease" was a phrase used as a euphemism. Since 1999, the World Health Organization (WHO) has recommended the term Sexually Transmitted Infection (STI) be used to be more inclusive than STD (sexually transmitted diseases).


	14. Chapter 14

John felt a bit numb in the following days. Sherlock had disappeared into his wing of the house, and John hadn't gone to the lab. They needed time apart.

It felt so bland, just doing his normal job. Eating in the dining hall. Even being in the library didn't help. Molly brought him books on all sorts of topics to distract him, but it was no use.

Every night, he saw Sherlock's current client, and couldn't help but imagine them together. How would Sherlock be with them? Would he touch and kiss them like he had John?

Why did Sherlock need this constant parade of people into his bed? Did he have a high libido? Did he tire easily of having the same partner? Did he get some thrill at being desired by so many people? What did he get from it besides money?

* * *

Saturday, John was just finished his afternoon staff appointments, when the office door crashed open.

"What have you done to Sherlock?" Greg was angry, right up in John's face.

The aggression brought out John's, a convenient target for all his feelings. "Get out of my office! Charging in here, accusing me of things. What gives you the right?" He growled back, giving as good as he got.

Greg straightened, making John aware of his larger size. "I'm the business manager. I hired you."

"Well, I'm part of the senior staff now. Only Sherlock can order me around." John glared back, not the least bit intimidated by him.

Greg scoffed, pacing around the office. "That's convenient, isn't it? The bloke is hardly even eating or sleeping, after what you did to him."

"Well, it's obviously not bad enough to keep him from working, is it? I still see his clients here every bloody night." John marched over to his door. "Get the hell out, Lestrade."

Scowling, Greg left and John had the pleasure of slamming the door hard behind him.

* * *

On his days off, he went down to Brighton. Harriet understood when he said he needed to be away from Sherlock. He slept, ate and walked on the beach. Clara and Harriet gave him some space.

"So, can you talk about it?" Harriet asked Monday at lunch, just the two of them in a small quiet cafe.

John sighed. So much had changed since he was here last. "I followed your advice, and even went out with a woman for a couple weeks. Tried to just act normal around him. It turned out he has feelings for me too, and we get along really well."

Harriet nudged his shoulder, her hazel eyes showing her concern. "But..."

"But..." John sighed. He hadn't gotten into the nature of the business with her. "You know I'm the live-in doctor for a large estate. But I didn't tell you that it is actually an upscale brothel. And Sherlock is the owner and the highest paid consort there."

Harriet almost choked on her tea. She chuckled. "Well, that's not the type of problem you read about in the Cupid's Letter Bag column!" She shook her head as she looked at John's troubled face. "He must be very good looking and charming to be in such high demand. But I can't picture you being in a happy relationship with someone in that..um...profession."

John chuckled at the terms she used, trying to be diplomatic with him. "I never thought he would like me back, that we would progress this far. He's rich and successful, he could have anybody. Never thought he'd go for a poor invalided army doctor."

"So what happened?" Harriet asked, eating some shortcake.

John sipped his tea, looking out at the rainy morning. "Things were on the verge of getting...intimate. And I just couldn't..."

Smirking a little, Harriet patted his hand. "Well, from my previous relationships, I believe I should say 'Don't worry, it happens to all men once in a while.'"

"Not that!" John shot back, glaring at her, knowing she was just teasing him to cheer him up. "I can't get past that he is with other people. You know how jealous I get."

Harriet nodded. "Oh yes, Bianca Jenkins."

"So, we are at a stalemate. I can't be with him if he is a consort. He says he can't quit, but won't tell me why." John chewed on his lip. "He puts his work above our relationship."

"It's a lot to ask someone to leave their job, change their whole life." Harriet played devil's advocate. "From your descriptions of the house, he must be very successful at it."

"I'm not asking him to get out of the business entirely. He could still own it, oversee things, and have an income from it. I could stay working there with him. It could be very good. I'm not asking for that big a change."

Harriet nodded, seeming to be over her shock about the business. "So, are you going to have to leave if he doesn't stop being a consort? Can you bear working there with things like they are?"

John shook his head. "It's probably best for both of us if I leave. Friday, I got yelled at by one of our mutual friends, saying Sherlock is a mess about it all."

Harriet squeezed his hand. "You are too, John. I can tell you have deep feelings for him, but it would kill you, piece by piece, if he left your bed to go be with others. I know you."

* * *

Harriet's words rang in John's head as he took the train back. He knew it was true.

The next morning, he knocked on Greg's door, resignation letter in hand.

* * *

John stepped into the lab, and felt relieved that it was empty. Going to his workstation, he put an empty box down. It was quickly filled with his jars, notebooks, and other various materials.

There was a soft noise, and John tensed, knowing it was Sherlock. Turning slowly, he saw him leaning against the doorway. His eyes flicked down to the box, and he sighed.

Reaching behind the door, he took down John's lab coat. "Don't forget this." He held it out towards John, not meeting his eyes. Greg had said he wasn't eating or sleeping much, and John could see the signs of it. He looked a little paler, his cheekbones perhaps a bit more prominent.

"Thanks." John took the lab coat, folding it messily before he shoved it in the box, happy to have something to direct his attention to. "Sherlock, can I just say…"

"Don't, John. Just don't. I can't take polite platitudes from you. Not you." He walked slowly into the lab, sitting down on his stool and crossing his legs. He was wearing an indigo robe with a pale chrysanthemum pattern today.

John nodded, not knowing what to say. "Do you mind if I take the test tubes I've been using?"

"No, John." Sherlock said, and got up to come stand a couple feet away. He reached to a lower shelf and pulled out another box, putting it on the counter near John. "Don't forget these ones either."

Lifting the flap to peek in, John let out a stifled laugh, and flicked his eyes up to Sherlock. "Are you sure you won't be needing them?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why would I need obscenely large test tubes?" His smile was small, and didn't quite reach his eyes.

John gave a tight smile back. He appreciated Sherlock's attempts to lighten this for them. "Oh, that reminds me…." John dug through the materials he had shoved into his box, finding the loosely wrapped paper package. "Um… here…"

Taking it from John, Sherlock opened it and let out a genuine chuckle.

"Fill them with water, go with Greg and throw them off somewhere high. They are from that same batch as the other water condoms." John shrugged, giving a half-smile at the memory.

"Shouldn't I save them in case there is a client needing this size?" Sherlock said lightly.

John shook his head. "They break too easily, remember? That's why…"

Sherlock stepped closer, interrupting him. "I know… I was just bugging you. Or trying to, anyways." He looked a bit uncomfortable.

Putting everything into the box, John picked it up. "Thanks, Sherlock." It seemed inadequate and awkward. He nodded, and walked out of the lab.

"John, stop." Sherlock said softly, from not far behind him.

Turning, John looked up at the tall man, his heart pounding. Suddenly nervous.

Stepping closer, Sherlock took the box and set it onto a nearby table. "John, sit with me a minute. I don't want… I can't have…" He looked away, clearly upset.

"Of course, Sherlock, of course." John sat down on the sofa, feeling close to losing it himself at seeing Sherlock like this.

Sherlock sat, plunking down without his usual grace. He let out a deep breath. "John, I know you feel like you need to go. But I wish you would reconsider. This is your home, your career. I am entirely to blame for things not working out between us. You shouldn't have your whole life disrupted because of me."

"I..I…can't stay. It's just too…hard." John bit his bottom lip and took a shaky breath.

Sherlock shifted closer, his knee bumping against John's. John looked up, his eyes searching Sherlock's, seeing just as much pain in them as he knew was in his own. His hands lifted towards John, but a second later he dropped them, his shoulders slumping.

John let out an involuntary noise and grabbed Sherlock, pulling him into a tight hug. After a second's hesitation, Sherlock's arms wrapped around him tight. Tucking his face into his neck, he could feel the taller man shuddering against him, and rubbed his back soothingly.

The light sandalwood scent, the silk robe against his fingers, the soft, black curls against the side of his face…they were all so familiar and dear. So Sherlock. John pulled back, looking into his sad eyes and couldn't resist leaning in to capture that mouth, those lips. It was foolish and stupid, but that didn't stop him from digging his hand into Sherlock's hair to kiss him harder. Deeper.

After a few seconds, Sherlock was returning the kisses. Sinking into them with a moan.

The sound went right through John. A jolt of pure want and need for this incredible man surged inside him. Hardly even thinking, he was pushing Sherlock down on the sofa, shifting over him. Desire guided him, pushing his leg between Sherlock's as he kissed down his neck. Feeling the warm skin against his lips. Feeling Sherlock respond, shifting under him to be closer, in better contact. His breathing was fast, his large hands clutching John's back.

John needed more, much more. He bit into Sherlock's neck, near his ear. Sherlock groaned, his fingers clenching against John's lower back. Shifting his hips, John pressed against Sherlock firmly.

He felt Sherlock arch up in response, his breath catching. Kissing along John's jaw, his hands cupped John's head, kissing him hard, urgently. John was hard and aching, and feeling Sherlock in a similar state, pressing together, was almost too much.

Sherlock gave him another firm kiss, his head falling back as he grabbed John's hips. Showing John the best rhythm.

John watched as Sherlock got lost in his pleasure, panting, back arching as he shuddered in John's arms. It was beautiful, intimate, perfect. John's peak was a few breaths later, sinking boneless against the tall man.

* * *

*** SEVEN MONTHS LATER ***

Pulling at his suit jacket, John stepped into the ballroom. The room was already quite full, and the musicians were playing a lively piece.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Mike asked, giving him a concerned look.

John gave a small smile and nodded. It was time to do this.

As they got drinks and walked through the crowd, they often stopped to talk to people they knew. John nodded at all the staff he saw in passing, knowing he would find time to catch up with them before the night was over.

"Dr. Watson?" A young red headed man gave John a questioning look.

Smiling in recognition, John held out his hand. "Yes. And you are Russell-" He only knew the man as a client, first name only. One of Sherlock's.

"Hamstead, Russell Hamstead. I haven't seen you in a long time."

"I haven't worked here for a while. I have my own practice now." It still felt good to say that.

When John had left the house, he went to Brighton to stay with Harriet and Clara, just regrouping. After many long talks about his options, he saw he had saved enough to open a simple practice in London. He could cover rent for a few months, and the basic equipment.

Russell looked interested. "Oh really? You know, my doctor recently retired, and I've been looking for a new one."

John fished a business card from his pocket. "I don't think I'm taking new patients at this time, but you are welcome to contact my office. They may be able to squeeze you in."

With a nod, he turned away as Mike brought him a new drink. "Is that Hamstead? He's made a fortune in railways, you know."

John didn't know, but he nodded in response. Mike had been a fantastic source of information when they went out. John ran into former clients all over London, like at Mike's club, the theatre, and in restaurants. They usually reacted like Russell had. John kept business cards handy, and had been quite relieved how quickly his new practice had booked with regular, paying clients.

Within a few months, he had been able to move to a more upscale location, hiring more staff. His flat and wardrobe reflected his success, and John tugged again on his new suit jacket. White tie looked good, but it was quite restrictive.

Like the other balls he had attended when he worked here, there came the time when the crowd quieted down, attention focused on the man who had made his dramatic entrance. John held back following everyone's gaze, his heart pounding.

Turning away, he finished off his wine and set the glass down. A few deep breaths later, he was back at Mike's side, nodding that he was all right to his friend's concerned glance. This was why he had come, after all. It wasn't time to falter now.

The Courtesan moved through the crowd, nodding and chatting with everyone pushing close to him. He called them by name easily, making them feel special when he asked after their newest business venture or travels to the continent. Everyone was charmed.

John braced himself as he grew closer. Sherlock's baritone voice seemed to be easier to hear over everyone else's, even though he wasn't speaking loudly.

When their eyes finally met, there was only a moment of stillness, a tiny widening of those light green eyes, before he greeted Mike warmly. When the eyes returned to John's, they were distant and cool, The Courtesan mask was in place.

"It is good to see you again, Mr. Holmes." John managed, his mouth dry. So many things unsaid.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over John, and met his with a wry smile. "You appear to have done quite well since starting your own practice, Doctor."

"Well in some ways, perhaps." John said softly.

The green eyes were half-lidded when they caught his again. But too soon, he was moving to the next people in the crowd.

* * *

"You look fantastic, Molly." John smiled warmly at his old friend.

She looked good, in a kelly green gown and her dark hair swept up into a sleek style.

She blushed slightly, looking pleased. "This is one of Vanessa's old gowns. She gives me a few every time she gets back from Paris, making room in her closet for the new ones."

"It's good having a friend who wears a similar size." John chuckled. He had really missed seeing her, although they had met up several times over the months he was gone.

Her dark eyes scanned him and she grinned. "You look quite dapper yourself. Is that a new suit?"

John straightened up, his nose lifted slightly, running his hands along the lapels. "It is, my dear. Thank you so much for noticing." He used his poshest tones, and smiled warmly when she giggled at his antics. "Need to look the part of a successful doctor, you know."

"You deserve your success, John." She rested a hand on his sleeve, giving it a small squeeze.

John looked into her intelligent eyes, and missed their deep conversations, the way she debated him fiercely when she disagreed with him. "Molly, I want to ask you something. Something I want you to take your time considering. Please know I am absolutely serious about this."

Her eyes widened, and she looked a little confused at John's intense tone. "You have me a bit nervous now. Please tell me what's on your mind."

Taking her right hand in his, he paused, collecting his thoughts. "Molly Hooper, from the first day I met you in that beautiful library, you have never failed to amaze me. I deeply admire your intelligence and thirst for knowledge. You have come from humble beginnings and taken opportunities where you found them. Educating yourself to a level that would challenge most university graduates."

Her gaze dropped, her cheeks a deep red. "John..." She was a woman who hadn't received that many sincere compliments from men.

"I have really missed you since I left the house. I consider you a friend, but also a fellow scientist. Molly Hooper, I know you probably never expected me to ask you this question, but would you do me the honor of becoming my assistant?"

She looked flummoxed by his speech, her blush still coloring her face. She was confused, yet pleased. "Your assistant, at your office?"

John nodded. "Elizabeth Garrett Anderson became a doctor a couple years ago, and I see no reason you could not do so as well, if you want to. I know you have a good position here, but I'm giving you a chance for a way to use your knowledge to help people."

Her initial shock was fading, leaving her looking pleased and a bit amused. "The whole idea is just crazy, John. I'm a housemaid."

"Who reads for hours everyday and can argue that germ theory makes more sense than spontaneous generation." John laughed. "You have book knowledge. Come work for me, and you can apply it with patients. I will train you, and if you need more formal education, we will find a way."

She still seemed a bit overwhelmed.

Giving her hand a squeeze, he let go. "Think about it, Molly. Maybe you could try it out, work at my office for a few hours on your days off or in the afternoons. Keep your job and living here for now."

Molly nodded, a spark of excitement in her eyes now. She was starting to see the future John had laid out. "Um...maybe...I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson."

"Be the hero of your own life, Molly." John smiled, and left to go to the washroom. He had a good feeling about this.

* * *

John had worked his way around the room, passing business cards to old clients who seemed interested, chatting with his former co-workers. Mike was in a deep conversation with the new house doctor, a distinguished man around sixty that John had met briefly.

"You finally made your way to me, Doctor?" Sally had a sassy way about her, enhanced by a few drinks she had enjoyed that evening. Her dress was a deep teal green, and a decorative pin in her hair had coordinating peacock feathers on it.

John gave her an appreciative glance, letting his admiration show. "Saving the best for last, Miss Donovan." He had enjoyed some wine as well.

Her smile was fond, and she stepped close. "You seemed quite taken with Molly as well, tonight. What were you two discussing so intensely earlier? She has been glowing since then."

John shook his head, not wanting to discuss it until Molly had given her decision. "Just some ideas for the future."

Her eyes were quite speculative. She was a good judge of character. It's what made her so good at her job. "Mrs. Hudson won't be the only one unhappy if you run away with Molly."

"You as well?" He didn't think Sally and Molly knew each other that well.

Sally shook her head, and looked pointedly through the crowd. John followed her gaze, to Sherlock. He was still charming the crowd, always leaving them wanting more as he moved along.

"He keeps watching you, you know. When you aren't looking." Sally said softly, noticing John's expression as he looked at Sherlock. "Just like you do to him."

Sighing, John knew it was true. Months away hadn't changed their awareness of each other. Hadn't lessened the ache of want that John had gotten accustomed to. He thought it would fade. Out of sight, out of mind. But it was even stronger than before.

He needed to get free of this hopeless feeling. Extinguish it. Let them both move on.

"Sally, I want to be a client."

She didn't bother asking for whom. They both knew. "He won't allow it, John. This isn't a good idea, for either of you."

"Book me an appointment. As soon as you can fit me in. Please."

She shook her head. "You can't afford it. You are doing well, but his fees are ridiculous. Don't, John, just don't. Leave the house now, and don't come back."

John put his hands on her shoulders, giving her his most level, genuine look. Let her see in, his barriers completely gone. "Sally, I need this. I need closure. Please, just ask him tomorrow. Just one session. That's all."

Her eyes took in his sincerity, and she finally nodded slowly. "Fine, Doctor. I will ask him. But I know he will say no." Her eyes were full of misgivings.

* * *

Two days later he got a letter from her in the post. Inside, it just had a date. Two weeks away.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Thanks again for all the lovely comments and support. It really means a lot to me.

-Cupid's Letter Bag: This was a 'Dear Abby' style column in The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine.

-Chrysanthemum: In Chinese tradition, since this flower blooms late and faces the winter, it can symbolize people who maintain their virtue despite adversity and temptation, and sometimes is a symbol for "forever".

-Elizabeth Garrett Anderson: She became the UK's first female physician, in 1865. She wrote her test and got her license to practice medicine from Society of Apothecaries, who immediately amended its regulations to prevent other women obtaining one. In 1876, the government passed a medical act that allowed British medical authorities to license all qualified applicants, whatever their gender.

-The hero of your own life: First line of David Copperfield. "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show."

-History & Etymology of Words: I'm not an expert on either of them, so please excuse any errors I make. I do enough research to feel comfortable writing a scene, but I'm hardly deeply knowledgeable about the topics. If you want more info, there's a great etymology website etymonline dot com. A fantastic site about all things Victorian is victoriaweb dot org.


	15. Chapter 15

John sat on the bed in The Courtesan's room; his heart beating so loudly he was afraid Sherlock would hear it when he arrived. If he ever arrived.

The last two weeks had been pure torture. John thought his feelings had calmed about Sherlock, quieted by all these months apart and establishing his business. But with that letter, a simple date, he was thrown back into the early days of his infatuation with Sherlock. He could hardly eat or sleep. His concentration was shot.

It was even worse than before, actually. He knew Sherlock better. Knew his smell, his taste, and the feel of his lips on his neck. Replayed the vision of Sherlock in his glorious peak, shuddering against John. As if that image hadn't been with him every day since he left the house.

It felt a bit surreal to knock on the front door, and to be admitted as a client. He was led to a change room, told to strip to his underwear and to don a robe. His possessions were locked into a cabinet.

There was a substitute doctor he didn't know in the medical office, the older one he met at the ball was away visiting an ill relative. It had been a while since he had a check-up, so it was a relief to be given the all clear.

Now, he sat in the robe, on the bed, knowing that any minute Sherlock would walk in. Finally, they would have sex. Finally, he would know what Sherlock did behind these closed doors. He had wondered about this since his interview, over a year ago.

Another few minutes passed before the door opened, and Sherlock entered, turning to lock it behind him. He leaned against the door dramatically, taking in the sight of John sitting on the bed. That bed.

John knew him well enough to know Sherlock was feeling the same gut-wrenching mix of excitement and nerves he was, even though he hid it pretty well. He was dressed in his normal ensemble of a white dress shirt and dark trousers, with a red patterned silk robe tied over it.

He straightened, seeming to collect himself, and strode towards the bed. This was The Courtesan, and John sat up as well.

"So, you have finally deigned to become a client. I suppose I should feel flattered." He stood at the end of the bed, tall and proud.

John swallowed hard. "Um...I couldn't afford it before. But now I can, with my practice..."

He was cut off when Sherlock waved his hand imperiously. "Hush. I know all about your reasons."

He pulled up an upholstered chair, with elegantly engraved oak legs, and sat down a couple feet in front of John, crossing his legs. His green eyes were cool and distant as they surveyed John slowly, no doubt taking in his rapid heartbeat, his faster breathing, and the slight flush to his skin. It was a blend of nerves and arousal, the signs John couldn't hide.

"As it is your first time, I will tell you how this works. We will play a game. If you win, you get me for the night. If I win, you will leave here without touching me." Sherlock had a devilish look as he said it, charming and mischievous.

John blinked a few times, his mind whirling. "You do this with all your clients? Every time?"

Sherlock chuckled softly, playing with the tie of his robe with his long fingers. "Yes. Your fee is your price to play the game. Every time you come back to play again, the price goes up 20%, as it gets harder for me to win." He said the amount, and even though John was expecting something high, it was still even more.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Do you wish to stop? It is a lot of money."

Shaking his head, John pulled out a promissory note, and filled it in with Sherlock's name and the amount, placing it on the nightstand. He had come this far, he wasn't stopping now. "What is the game?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he gave a small smile that was mischievous and sinful. This was not the Sherlock John knew. This was The Courtesan, seducing him with every look, every word. Making him wait, drawing him in.

Getting off the chair, he took out a set of keys, taking his time unlocking the dresser, the trunk and the closet. He opened the trunk at the end of the bed, and drew a few things out, closing it again.

"You will take off that robe, and attach these to your wrists and ankles." Sherlock drawled, watching John closely as he showed him the leather cuffs.

He placed them all on the bed, and John stared down at them. This was far outside anything he had done before. It sent a jolt of fear, but also excitement, through him.

Sherlock waited a few moments before continuing, his voice a silky purr. "You will lie down in the center of the bed, and attach the cuffs to the cords on each bedpost, leaving your one hand free." Leaning over, he showed John a cord clipped to a bedpost.

"I have to restrain myself?" John asked, trying to picture it, and how it would feel to be stretched out and helpless on the bed like that.

Sherlock gave a saucy grin. "Yes. I will be in the closet, changing, while you do that. When I come out, I'll restrain your free hand."

John swallowed again, nervously. "What if I want to be let go?"

"You'll have to trust me, John. It's all part of the game. I will release your hand if you ask, but it means I've won." His green eyes gleamed, clearly excited about playing. "If you want, you can have a safe word. Something you can say and I'll stop everything and release you. Just pick a word."

John took a deep breath, slowly letting it out. Watching Sherlock closely, he finally said, "Dandelion."

Sherlock's eyes widened a little, and his mask slipped the tiniest bit. But quickly, his Courtesan façade was back in place. Nodding with a small smile, Sherlock got up. "So, any more questions about the game?"

John wrinkled his brow, trying to think straight. "Um...so I'm tied down and I win as long as I don't ask to be released? What will you be doing to me? Hurting me?"

"I'll ask your permission before I do anything that might hurt. You will win if you last a full hour." Sherlock said softly, looking down at John with his playful smile.

John felt a bit like a mouse being toyed with by a large cat. He didn't know what was going to happen, and Sherlock had been doing this for years. What was he getting himself into?

Sherlock was watching his face, no doubt seeing every emotion flashing across it. "Well, I am going to get changed now. You have a choice to make. Either you pick up your promissory note and leave, or you follow my directions. When I come out here again, if you are tied up on the bed, we will start playing the game."

He strolled to the huge walk-in closet, pausing to give John a small smile that was pure sin before he stepped inside. He closed the double doors behind him.

John let out the breath he had been holding, He stood up, looking between the door to the hallway, and the closet door Sherlock had disappeared behind. He could leave now, admit to himself that this was crazy. Sherlock was playing his role, not acting like himself. Did he even want to see Sherlock like this? See what he would do? How far he would go? This could change the way he thought of Sherlock forever.

But if he left, he would always wonder what could have been. Wonder what Sherlock did with clients. Here was his chance to try to make sense, finally, of why this was so important to Sherlock that he couldn't give it up. Finally, to know the full story.

With a decisive nod, John stripped off his robe, and laid it on a chair. Sitting on the bed, he put the cuffs on, strapping them snugly. The insides were padded and they felt comfortable. Shifting to the center, he reached down and attached the cords to his ankle cuffs. It was a little awkward to do his right hand, stretching a bit to reach, but he managed.

Lying down, he shifted to be comfortable, a pillow behind his head. It was a large double bed, with no blankets or quilt covering it. The sheets were fine, ivory linens. The room was lit fairly well, with paraffin lamps on the bedside tables giving it a golden glow. He felt very exposed, wearing only his white cotton drawers.

The closet doors swung open, and Sherlock came back into the room. He walked slowly around the bed, looking over John stretched out over it.

John squirmed under his gaze. He was looking back; at first thinking Sherlock was wearing the same clothes as he had on before. But on closer examination, he could tell he was wearing a different shirt underneath the red silk robe. From his angle, he couldn't see if anything else was different.

Sherlock reached his left side, and looked down at John with a cocky grin. "Last chance, John Watson."

Gazing up at the attractive man standing so close, John could feel the awareness still there between them. He lifted his left hand towards the post, and felt the cord click onto the cuff. He was at Sherlock's mercy now. There was a zing through his body at the thought, excitement and arousal, with a touch of fear.

Spinning on his heel, Sherlock pointed to the wall. "See the clock up there? It's 10:20. By 11:20, we will know the outcome of our little game."

John found he was tensing up, not sure what Sherlock would do next. He had said he would release John if he asked, but what if he didn't?

Sherlock moved the chair he had sat on before so it was facing the bed. He sunk onto it, leaning back casually and setting his feet on the edge of the bed, crossing his ankles.

He was wearing black riding boots that laced up to his knees. His position shifted the robe; spreading it open and showing that he was wearing ivory riding breeches. The boots and the breeches fit his long legs snugly, and John couldn't help but give an admiring look.

When his gaze went finally to Sherlock's face, there was a slight smirk on his lips. "You know, it was hard to think of what to wear to tempt you. Most of my clients have been attracted to men since puberty. I usually just have to glean what first caught their attention. Redcoats, school uniforms, cricket whites, or cassocks. Sometimes a white lab coat and stethoscope." He arched an eyebrow.

"But you said you weren't interested in men. Until me." Sherlock purred. He shifted down on the chair, sitting on the edge and dropping his head onto the backrest. He lifted his top leg, bracing his foot against the side of the bed, his legs falling open slightly. John couldn't help but look, letting his eyes travel over the long lines of his body. Wanting so badly to touch him. Run his hands along those tight breeches, up his inner thighs.

Sherlock's fingers toyed along the lapels of the red silk robe, and John's eyes were drawn there. "It's kind of boring to dress like I always do, though." He moved one booted foot, nudging it against John's hip.

Lifting the end of the robe's belt, he kept pulling it upwards until it came undone. He wrapped his hand around it, tugging until it was free of the belt loops. The red silk slid open, revealing that he was wearing a black waistcoat, with a snowy white shirt beneath. An ivory satin puff tie was knotted around his neck. He looked wonderful, the clothing showing off his slim frame.

Standing up, Sherlock turned to face away from John. He let the thick red silk robe slide off his shoulders, descend down his arms, landing in a soft pile at his feet. It was like a theatre curtain being pulled away, revealing the main attraction.

John felt his body react to the sight in front of him. Sherlock, in the fitted clothes, showed every detail of his body, enhanced it. John's eyes travelled down his slim torso, the curve of his lower back, the black leather encasing his lower legs. But he couldn't look away from that expanse between the base of the waistcoat and the top of the boots.

The ivory riding breeches were tight and showed everything. Sherlock's thighs were more muscular than John expected, more powerful. His ass was perfect, round and firm. It was a man's body, and John could feel his desire spiraling up. As soon as this hour was done, he would be peeling those breeches off, and exploring the bared skin below. Until Sherlock was squirming and begging under his touch.

Sherlock bent over, making John give a slight groan at the sight, and picked up the robe, draping it on a chair.

Chuckling to himself, he walked to the other wall, opening some drawers of the dresser, looking for something. John's eyes were still glued to him, curious what Sherlock was doing. Excited and tense with the possibilities.

Turning back to the bed, the green eyes swept over John; seeing that his drawers did nothing to hide that he was half-hard. Just having Sherlock looking at him so directly there made John stiffer, shifting in his restraints. He had been at a constant low-grade arousal for the last two weeks. Hell, it had been for months. Being here, like this, was almost too much.

John was beginning to understand why clients lost when they played this game with Sherlock.

It got even worse when John noticed what Sherlock had taken out of the dresser. A riding crop.

"Sherlock..." John said, his voice coming out more roughly than he intended. It was a warning tone, but he was embarrassed when there was a little bit of a whine in there. Like he was asking for it. It was so confusing. Part of him thought this was ridiculous, but another part was sitting up in interest. Curious. Wanting to feel the crop as Sherlock wielded it. It was a completely dirty thought.

Sherlock climbed onto the bed, and swung a leg over John's bare chest. He shifted to straddle John comfortably, his breeches stretched tight over his thighs, his booted calves against John's hips on each side.

From this superior position, Sherlock looked down at John with a smirk playing on his full lips. "Hmmmmm...we never went riding together, did we? I rather like riding. I can go for hours and hours."

He set the crop down on the bed, and leaned forward, looping the doubled-up red sash of his robe around the back of John's neck.

When Sherlock pulled back on the sash, John had no choice but to lift his head off the bed. Sherlock leaned forward, looking into John's face, so close he could feel his warm breath against his lips. John closed his eyes, wanting to stretch up and kiss Sherlock. He was so close, barely out of reach. He made a frustrated sound as Sherlock relaxed the sash and let him fall back against the pillow.

Sherlock shifted back slightly, resting right on John's hips. John moaned at the heat, the pressure. Just wanting more. He pressed his hips upward, but Sherlock lifted up, out of reach there as well. Such a tease.

Still holding the ends of the sash with his hands, Sherlock moved his body up and down in a posting motion, like he was on a trotting horse. John watched the way he raised and lowered on top of him, his strong thighs easily keeping a good pace. Each time he lowered his body, he brushed against John firmly, and it didn't take long until John was rock hard and aching. Straining with his hips to meet Sherlock's motions.

Pulling on the sash, he had John raising his head as he leaned in closer. His eyes were glowing, a faint sheen of sweat on his skin. He was so close, as he whispered, "Slow is good, but sometimes I like to ride fast."

His hips moved into a cantering motion, rocking forward and backwards fast over John. He struggled to push his hips up, getting the best contact from Sherlock. His face came close to John's raised one, but never near enough to kiss.

John was groaning loudly, getting close. Just being with Sherlock, like this, was bringing him right to the edge of his control. "Yes, Sherlock...so good.."

The encouragement had the opposite effect from what he intended. Sherlock straightened up, shifting back to straddle John's thighs. He eased John's head back, letting go of the sash. He looked gorgeous, his skin flushed from the exertion, his eyes glittering with arousal and excitement.

Looking down, Sherlock tutted at John's tented underwear. His erection was almost pushing through the button fly of the thin fabric, arousal making the material damp and clinging. "Hmmm...that looks uncomfortable. If it gets to be too much, just say the word and I can release your hand. You can take care of yourself."

John could imagine doing just that, his desire so strong he was seriously tempted. He could easily picture undoing his buttons, spreading the fabric open. Too far gone to be ashamed, as he wrapped his hand around himself, right in front of Sherlock. A few hard strokes was all he needed...

John groaned, pulling back from that line of thinking. The Game...he just needed to hold out a little longer.

Picking up the crop, Sherlock ran the leather keeper on the end of it down John's bare chest. It tickled along his sensitive skin, leaving goose pimples in its wake.

John's breath caught when the keeper traced along his erection. "Sherlock...," his tone was a low warning.

The tall man gave a slow, saucy grin back. "I won't hurt you, just teasing you a little. Just say the word and I'll stop."

Closing his eyes, John tried to block out the sight of the beautiful man on top of him. But lacking visual cues, it made him even more sensitive to the little brushes of the crop against his turgid flesh. The thin underwear was no barrier; it felt like he was naked to the small strokes of the leather. He tried to close his legs when the keeper went lower, tracing over his bollocks, but his legs were restrained. Spread wide, totally at Sherlock's mercy.

The strokes started alternating with little flicks. They weren't painful, but they made John jump and twist under Sherlock. He was moaning almost constantly now, so hard and aching.

John opened his eyes, turning his head to look at the clock. More than fifteen minutes were left. He'd never last.

Sherlock saw where he was looking, and his reaction. "Come on, John. Let me release your hand. I want to watch you pleasure yourself, watch as you peak." His eyes were dark and intent, and John felt even more aroused that Sherlock desired him too.

Shaking his head, John closed his eyes. Sherlock shifted to kneeling beside him, running the keeper up the inside of his legs, or down his arms. The strokes frequently ended on his erection, building his anticipation of that contact with each stroke. It was enough to keep him aching, but not enough to push him over the edge.

John felt the mattress shift, and Sherlock got off the bed. He put the crop away, and undid the buttons on his vest. Taking it off, he was only in a white shirt, tucked into his riding breeches. More than anything, he wanted Sherlock naked, on this bed. Just a few more minutes and it would happen.

"Hmmm...most clients don't last this long. I guess I'm going to lose. What are you going to do with me?" Sherlock purred, walking around the bed.

John's mind quickly filled with all the fantasies he had about Sherlock. Things he often thought about when he pleasured himself. He moaned.

Sherlock smiled. "I've wondered about you too, John. Pictured you naked in your bed, pleasuring yourself, maybe thinking about me." He reached into another drawer, and then closed it.

Going back to the padded chair, he sat on it sideways, draping his long legs over one arm, and his back leaning against the other. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, laying it open and stroking his hands down his chest, his eyes closed. Moaning softly.

John was watching, of course, and jolted when there was a bright flash of color against Sherlock's pale skin. His eyes widened when he saw it more clearly. It was a fuchsia pink feather.

Sherlock stroked it across his skin, up his chest. They were places John had stroked himself with that feather he had found. Was it the same one? How did Sherlock know? John watched as he brushed it along his jaw, tilting his head back to run it down his neck. Those were all places he wanted to put his mouth, kissing, tasting and biting.

It was just too much… too much… He couldn't wait any more. He needed to have his hand free now, to finally release the pressure that had built and built.

"Um…. Sherlock…." John started.

Just as Sherlock opened his eyes, and was turning his head towards John, a pleased smile on his lips, there was a loud, hard knocking on the door. They both jumped, heads whipping around to stare at it.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson..." A man called through the door, and then knocked again on the door hard and urgently. "It's a medical emergency."

Getting up quickly, Sherlock was at the door in a few long strides. He opened it a crack, talking quickly with whoever was out there. "Yes, we will be right there."

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Eeeeeeeee... This was really hard to write. Be gentle, kind readers!

-Left Handed John: Since Martin Freeman is a south paw.

-Victorian Mens' Underwear: Men wore 'drawers', a lightweight garment made of cotton or linen usually, that went down to their knees or ankles. They had buttons or a drawstring at the waist. Often, an undershirt or full flannel long underwear was worn as well.

-Riding Crop: At the end, there is a flap of leather, about an inch long. It is called a keeper.

-Bollocks: Hmmm... I guess they used the term 'balls' for testicles back to the 14th century, but it feels too modern to my ears.


	16. Chapter 16

"Come, John." Sherlock stood at the door, a dark shadow. His tone was tired, but authoritative.

John looked at his patient on the bed. "But she..."

"She is resting easier now. We have arranged for a rotation of staff to sit with her. Come, you are exhausted and no use to anyone like this." The firm tone was that of Mr. Holmes, the owner of the house. The man who had built this business up from nothing.

He moved aside as Vanessa entered, and walked to John. She waited until he stood up before settling on his chair. "Go, Doctor. We will let you know if she gets worse." Her eyes were steady and sincere.

Nodding, John shuffled out of the room. He was bone tired, and his leg was acting up enough for him to wish he had his cane.

For over twenty-four hours, he hadn't left Mrs. Hudson's side. Her fever had been high, and she was barely conscious for most of it. He did what he could, and it had been a relief when the fever finally broke and she slept normally.

Sherlock stepped close, wrapping a supportive arm around his waist for John to lean into him.

John noticed when they left the staff wing. "But my room..." He looked back in confusion.

"It belongs to the new doctor now, John. Hush, we will get you a comfortable spot to rest." His tone was softer, now that it was just the two of them.

Nodding, John kind of faded out, letting Sherlock guide them.

* * *

"John, there's a hot bath ready for you, and some clean pajamas. Do you need help?" Sherlock lifted his hands to the top button of John's shirt.

Shaking his head, John pushed his hands away. "No, I'll manage."

Sherlock looked down at him with a fond look. "OK, but I will be back in ten minutes to check on you. If you aren't done by then, I'll be helping you." He shut the door behind him as he left.

It was a relief to strip off his old, dirty clothes, and sink into the hot water. It revived him somewhat, scrubbing hard with a soapy sponge and washing his hair. He didn't linger once he was clean, for fear he would fall asleep in the tub and Sherlock would find him like that.

Coming out of the bathroom, John walked over to the fire. Sherlock jumped up, waving for John to sit down on the big sofa. It felt strange to be back in Sherlock's wing, but it was also familiar. Safe and familiar.

"There is some beef barley soup here for you. Please eat some before you go to sleep." Sherlock said as he sat in the armchair. He had changed too, pajamas also showing below his robe.

John knew it wasn't worth a fight. He wasn't hungry, but knew he hadn't eaten all day. His energy would be better if he ate a little.

Soon after, he snuggled back onto the sofa, thick blankets keeping him warm, the fire banked and glowing softly. He said goodnight to Sherlock as he drifted into an exhausted sleep.

The tall man watched him for a while in the dim firelight, from his armchair. Sighing, he got up and made sure the blankets were still covering him well, before leaning down to kiss him lightly on his temple. He walked upstairs slowly.

* * *

Sherlock put down the newspaper when John re-entered the wing. "Good timing, John. Breakfast just came." He waved him to the table with him.

Sitting down, John helped himself to a good breakfast. He felt quite hungry today.

Sherlock watched with a small smile. "So, she is doing well?"

John nodded as he poured his tea. "Yes, low on energy, but the fever is still gone. I've ordered her to take the week off, to rest a lot and go for short walks outside. Get her energy back."

Setting his cup down, Sherlock leaned forward. "John, I need your honest opinion. Should Mrs. Hudson be retiring soon? Am I overburdening her?"

Finishing his bite of toast, John shook his head slowly. "Well, a fever like she had can happen to anyone. But the young and old are at more risk. We don't want her getting run down from working too hard."

Sherlock nodded, encouraging John to continue.

"Maybe she could ease off a little. Get an assistant she can train, who could eventually replace her." John suggested.

Pushing his empty plate away, Sherlock dropped his gaze. "That is a good idea. I will discuss it with her when she's feeling better." He fiddled with his napkin, before lifting his eyes to John's again. "Could we...would you mind...," he started, looking uncomfortable, fumbling his words, "...could we sit on the sofa and talk a little?"

John felt his stomach tighten with nerves, but knew they needed this. Everything between them had been interrupted by that knock on the door. They needed to clear the air between them. He got up, moving to the sofa. Pushing the blankets out of the way as he sat down.

Sherlock sat at the other end, pulling a corner of a blanket into his lap and fidgeting with the edge. "A lot has happened the last couple days." He spoke cautiously.

His awkwardness made John's heart sink a little. Things were such a mess between them. How had they gone from being close friends who had shared so many laughs and good times, to being like this? Had being a client just made everything worse?

John gave a small smile back. "Yes, so much." Sherlock was trying, and he had to meet him halfway.

"Can I...can I hug you?" Sherlock asked softly.

The request seemed so ridiculous, but at the same time perfect. It was just what John needed. "Um...yes...please."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Sherlock was at his side, gathering him close into his embrace. John sunk right into those comforting arms, pressing his face against his shoulder. Feeling the warmth, his scent, his body against his own.

John could feel the tension inside him unwinding, everything he hadn't even realized that was bottled up. Sherlock was rubbing his back in long, firm strokes, pushing John even closer against him.

He pulled back when he felt a tear escape one eye, fumbling for his handkerchief with a small chuckle. "Sorry I'm such a mess." He wiped at his eyes and blew his nose.

Sherlock still had an arm around John's shoulders, not letting him get far away. "Mrs. Hudson's illness reminded you of your parents. I could tell." His voice was soft, his green eyes full of caring.

Blinking fast, John tried to hold it all together. "She just looked so small and weak, under those bedcovers. I've never thought of her as old and frail before."

Sherlock chuckled. "Don't let her hear you call her that. She is far from being infirm."

"Well, illness can take anyone so fast." John said, looking down at where his hand rested against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock took his hand in his own. "Exactly. That is why we need to be brave and live our lives fully. Take risks." He looked at John's mouth, so close.

John's breath caught, feeling Sherlock so near. He was asking for John's permission to kiss, hovering there so close. He gave it, lifting his face, pushing in that last little bit.

The kiss was slow and thorough. John's hand went to Sherlock's hair, feeling the silky strands between his fingers. Sherlock's large hands were on John's back, pulling him closer until there was no space between them.

When they broke apart, Sherlock urged John to lie down on the sofa, pulling a blanket over them. They lay side by side, just looking at each other.

"I have missed you so much." John confessed, his eyes looking closely at Sherlock's face, searching for any small changes.

Sherlock huffed, softening it with a small smile. "You've been away, conquering London. I've been stuck here, surrounded by things that remind me of you." He waved a hand around the room. "You've been everywhere."

"And now even The Courtesan bedroom." John said, a bit surprised at how easily they were talking. His Sherlock was back. His heart ached at how much he had missed this.

Sherlock looked a slight bit embarrassed, which amused John to no end. "Yes, you know everything now." He rolled his eyes.

John took his hand, playing with it. "No, Sherlock, not the most important part. I have a good idea of what you do in there now, but I still don't understand why you seem to need it so much. What do you get from it, aside from the money?"

Sherlock looked down, and John could feel this troubled him. He seemed to withdraw into himself, his energy dimming.

He was quiet a long time, still holding John's hand and stroking the back of it with his thumb. John waited, nervous, wondering if he had asked too much. Would Sherlock just get off the sofa and leave? Had John blown this sweet, tentative peace they had only just established?

Sherlock finally sighed, and looked up at John. His eyes were very troubled, vulnerable. He swallowed, looking uncomfortable. "To really understand it, I'll have to tell you some rather unsavory things about my past. Things that may forever change the way you think of me, look at me. Things I've battled for many years."

John nodded. "I am here for you, Sherlock. My past isn't pristine either." He gave Sherlock's hand an encouraging squeeze.

Rolling onto his back on the sofa, Sherlock tugged the blanket in place. He steepled his fingers together, looking up at the ceiling. "I told you that I did a Grand Tour of Europe after college, and that it ended badly, with my estrangement from my family."

John nodded when Sherlock flicked his gaze his way.

"After travelling through many countries, I had tired of seeing castles and churches. Tired of being with young aristocrats, who rarely did much but drink, gamble and swive women. As I am not that interested in any of those activities, I ended up going my own way to find amusements." Sherlock drawled.

John could all too easily picture Sherlock's contempt with such company. He remembered how dismissive he had been of Anderson at that theatre.

Sherlock turned his head, looking at John then. "I have a rather unusual nature, John. I hunger for new knowledge, new ways to occupy my brain. I can hardly function without it. This need was satisfied when I was in school, or when I was at home surrounded by books, and my experiments. But traveling didn't capture my interest enough. I am more interested in discovering new things than wallowing in the past."

"Well, you certainly are the most intelligent man I know." John could see that this house was designed to help Sherlock with this need. The lab must have been specially designed and constructed, as he had never seen one like it in any private house.

Sherlock turned back to gaze at the ceiling again. "I was in Marseille, the French port city on the Mediterranean. Do you know it?"

John shook his head. He had travelled through Europe by train en route to Afghanistan, but hadn't had the chance to explore.

"An acquaintance encouraged me to try something new, promising I would like it. That was the first time I smoked opium." Sherlock said softly, his hands pulling the blanket up higher on his chest.

John's eyes closed, and his heart sunk. He had seen far too many addicted to that drug. It was very common in the countries he had fought in.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was watching him, his gaze troubled. He knew John understood how bad it could be. "I was lost after that. It quieted my thoughts, just let me exist in peace. I still crave that feeling."

"What happened, Sherlock?" John had to know it all now, no matter how bad it was.

Sherlock ran his hands over his face. "It was just as terrible as you can imagine. As my money ran out, I went to worse and worse opium dens, not caring how filthy they were as long as I got what I needed. Time was a blur." He swallowed hard. "Eventually, the money was gone, and my family knew something was wrong. They demanded I come home. Cut me off."

Getting up, John got them both a cup of tea. He just needed to move. He knew what Sherlock was going to say next.

Sitting back down, they retreated to their own ends of the sofa, sipping their tea. They were sitting cross-legged, facing each other.

"So, you turned to prostitution." John said finally, putting his cup on the side table. It made sense. Many certainly took up the profession to support their drug habit. It hurt his heart to think of Sherlock so desperate and low.

Sherlock sighed, looking down at his empty cup. "I had been to many countries, and there are prostitutes everywhere. Discretely tucked in doorways around the busy city streets. Even as a child, I was always fascinated by them, and how no one in polite society would talk about them.

"I watched how they dressed and acted, how they enticed their customers." He set the cup aside. "When I travelled in Europe, I saw them everywhere as well. This time, they were approaching my associates and me. I watched how they flirted and enchanted. Saw the courtesans and the _demimonde_ , how they existed on the edge of polite society. There were a few in high demand, and I wondered about how they had done it. It was all just a passing interest. Studying human behavior."

It made sense. He was so good at reading people. It must have taken him his whole life to get to that level. John shifted into a reclining position on the sofa.

Sherlock copied him, leaning back on his arm of the sofa, facing each other. He bent one leg, resting his hand on his knee.

"I was desperate for money, but I was still myself enough to think it through. If I was going to do this, I would do it on my own terms." Sherlock fiddled with the blanket, his fingers creasing it different ways.

His green eyes went to John's. "Wealthy, older men and women had approached me in the past. I knew what they were like, how to manage them. They weren't used to not getting what they wanted. Being told 'No' just made them want something more. They were impatient, hated waiting for anything."

He shrugged. "So I dressed in my best clothes, and went to a house party of an acquaintance. By the end of the night, I had three appointments set up."

John shook his head. It was an incredible story. "You played the game with them all, right from the start?"

Sherlock had a spark of humor in his eyes as he looked back at John. "Well, I certainly wasn't attracted to any of them. The thought of touching them, or worse, having them touch me, turned my stomach."

John chuckled, relieved to laugh after their intense talk.

"Although what we did is a lot more than I usually do with a client. I don't normally...um...ride..." Sherlock looked away, seeming uncomfortable.

John got up on his knees, looking down at his friend. "Oh really? Those boots and breeches were just for me? The crop just for me?" He teased, liking the way Sherlock shifted.

Sitting up, Sherlock smirked. "The crop? Hardly! Most of my clients are into a bit of humiliation, a bit of pain."

John was intrigued. "Really? Um...could you...um...give me an example?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, looking at John intently. "Hmmmm..." He got off the sofa slowly, still looking at John.

John felt frozen under that intense stare, his heart suddenly thumping. He felt like prey lying still under the gaze of a hawk.

Reaching out fast, Sherlock grabbed the back collar of John's pajama top, clenching it in his fist so the fabric strained against John's neck. He pulled on it, and John found himself following to ease the pressure on his neck, bending backwards. His neck was completely exposed.

It had happened so fast, John was stunned, breathing hard, his heart pounding.

Sherlock leaned over him, right in his face. "You want me to kiss you right now? Don't you? Want me just to take that dirty mouth of yours?"

His lips parted, panting. He could feel Sherlock's breath against his face. Wanted his kiss so much. John gazed down at those full lips. "Yes. Kiss me."

"You want to kiss a dirty whore like me? What does that make you, John? Doesn't it make you just as dirty?" Sherlock growled, yanking slightly on the fabric.

John nodded, so completely aroused he could hardly think. Taking care of Mrs. Hudson had occupied him so much the past day, but now that she was safe, thoughts of their interrupted appointment returned. All that pent up sexual need surged right back.

Moving closer, Sherlock's lips were almost against John's, when he stopped again. John whined.

"You were even going to have sex with me, weren't you? Paid good money for a chance at me." Sherlock whispered against his lips. "All your pretty objections pushed aside."

"Please, please..." John struggled to get closer.

Sherlock gave the cloth a final yank, and let it go. He backed off. "You don't deserve my kisses. Don't deserve to have me naked in your bed. You act all superior but I have your promissory note that shows how low you were willing to go."

It was true. Lust, pure wanting, had John signing over his hard earned money for just a night with Sherlock. "Please...please..." He still wanted Sherlock so much.

John was still kneeling on the sofa, Sherlock standing nearby. Putting a hand on John's shoulder, he gave it a little squeeze. He let out a breath, shaking his head. His facade fell away, leaving just Sherlock. "It would be easy to kiss you, take what I've wanted so long, John. But that is just lust over-riding your good sense. You will regret it later, I know you." He climbed onto the sofa, leaning back on the arm with his eyes closed.

Feeling disappointed and still keyed up, John's shoulders slumped. He was right, the lousy berk. He crawled over to lie beside Sherlock.

Reaching out a hand, he brushed the hair back off Sherlock's face. "Can I kiss you? Just us. No Courtesan in sight?"

Sherlock's lips tightened into a small smirk, but his eyes dropped to John's. He was miles away from the disciplinarian he had been moments earlier. This was the vulnerable man who had just laid out his dark past.

John leaned close, pressing their lips together, savoring the zing of pure awareness at that contact. The kiss deepened, but wasn't desperate. They both needed this, wanted this. It was about being close more than sex. Pressing to lie against each other, but not grinding together. It was relearning each other's bodies, stroking hands over a back, or down an arm.

Kissing all over his face, and down his neck, John sunk into it. Breathing in his scent, indulging all his senses in Sherlock. Indulging in the closeness that they didn't share with anyone else. Getting comfortable again after being apart so long.

Eventually, they pulled back, staring at each other in the afternoon sunlight.

"I love you, you know." Sherlock said softly. His eyes held so many emotions.

John blinked back his tears. "Yes. I love you too." His voice was shaky, but he knew his words were true.

Sherlock nodded, looking a bit overwhelmed. "But it still doesn't change the core problem keeping us apart, does it?" He sighed.

Feeling confused, John shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"I can't quit my job, and you can't take me being with clients. Even though you know now there is absolutely no chance of me catching anything." Sherlock said softly.

John thought about everything he had learned from the appointment and the talk today. "Well, even if you are mostly whipping and teasing them, you are very sexually intimate with them. Getting into their heads, figuring out their fantasies, getting them to the point of losing the game."

"I know. It feels like cheating to you, being so intimate with other people." Sherlock nodded.

John felt so frustrated. "I don't think you finished your story earlier. You became a consort, playing your sex games for money. You became successful and you don't need money anymore. Why do you still need to be a consort?"

Sherlock pulled away, sitting on the edge of the sofa, his face in his hands. Finally he sat up straighter, turning to face John. "I became a consort to get money for opium. I needed the opium to quiet my mind. But I soon found that to play the game with clients, I needed my mind to be sharp. I couldn't have it dulled with drugs."

"So what did you do?" John only had experience with laudanum, opium in an alcohol solution, not opium being smoked.

"I played around with it. Varied how long to wait until my brain was clear, and I could see a client. Making enough to head back to the opium den for a day or two, using up the money."

John nodded, picturing that time when Sherlock lived in France, barely existing. It sounded horrible.

"When I wasn't using drugs, I was looking for new clients, using my skills to figure them out, lure them in." Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Over time, I found the work was fascinating, like my books and experiments were. It fully engaged my mind. I didn't need the drugs as much."

It was hard to believe. "But opium is incredibly addictive. Most people don't just decide to stop using it. Their bodies shake, they have hallucinations, sweat and scream."

Sherlock sighed. "I guess it was a fight between wanting the oblivion of the drug or having my mind back. I weaned off the drug slowly, using it less when I did, making the days between use longer. By the time I came back to England, I didn't use it anymore."

It must have been much harder than Sherlock was saying, but John respected him even more for succeeding in it. He nodded.

Taking John's hands, Sherlock looked him straight in the eye. "Don't you see? Being with clients is my brain being challenged. The stakes are high, since I don't want to have sex with them. I have to figure them out and beat them, all in a space of an hour. It is intense and hard to do. I deliberately make it hard, never taking stupid clients like Anderson, never resorting to touching them directly. It's not satisfying if it's too easy."

John looked into those green eyes, finally understanding it. "You satisfy your needs by spending five hours a week as a consort?"

Sherlock nodded. "I read, work in the lab, play the violin...those all help. I've reduced it to the lowest amount of time with clients as I can. Less than five hours a week, and I start feeling antsy. Anxious. I start thinking about how it would be nice to quiet my brain down and where I can get-"

John dropped his hands, pulling back, and Sherlock didn't finish his sentence. Was he really that close to using drugs again? Even after not using it for so long?

Getting off the sofa, Sherlock looked defeated. "So, would you rather have me be a whore for five hours a week, or a drug addict?"

With that, Sherlock spun and left the wing, the door closing hard behind him.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Hmmm… what can I say? Thanks for reading this crazy fic still!

-Opium: This drug is the dried latex obtained from opium poppies. The seed pods are scored with a knife, and the latex that seeps out and dries is collected the next day. An acre yields 3-5 kg of raw opium. This stinky gel is partially refined, pressed into bricks and sun-dried as a morphine base that is easier to smuggle. It can be used in this form, or processed into other drugs, including heroin.

-Marseille: Opium smoking was brought back to France by expatriates returning from their southeast Asian colonies. There were numerous opium dens in the port cities like Toulon, Marseille and Hyeres. Most opium dens kept a supply of opium paraphernalia such as the specialized pipes and lamps that were necessary to smoke the drug. Patrons would recline in order to hold the long opium pipes over oil lamps that would heat the drug until it vaporized, allowing the smoker to inhale the vapors.


	17. Chapter 17

"You again!" Harriet said as she opened the door, grabbing John to pull him into the house and into her arms.

John hugged her back just as hard. "Sorry. Just needed a bit of a getaway."

Clara walked in from the kitchen. "More boy troubles? You really should switch back to women. They are much better." She patted Harriet's bottom as she walked up to greet John.

Seeing the warm look that passed between the women, John gave a wry smile. "Aye, wish I could. But I love the damn berk."

Linking her arm through his, Harriet tugged him down the hall and into the kitchen. "Oh, it's like that, is it? Well, come sit down. We're just about to have some stew."

* * *

It had taken a while, but by the time they were sitting on the wicker furniture on the front porch, sipping tea, the women had the full story.

John felt better for having talked about it all. It gave him some perspective. His emotions were such a mess about everything.

"So, he hasn't used opium for years, but he talked about it like he could drop everything and go back to it. Is that how it really is, after so long?" John ran a hand through his hair.

Harriet leaned against his side. "Yes, that's how it works. Not a day passes when I don't think about going back to drinking, sometimes many times a day."

"But you haven't had anything for months!"

She shrugged. "It numbs feelings, lets you escape from reality. Who doesn't want that sometimes?"

John turned to Clara. "How do you deal with it? Knowing it's still such a pull?"

Clara's dark eyes met Harriet's. "We have had our share of screaming matches. Huge fights. In the end, we are taking it day by day and supporting each other through the hard stuff."

They talked on, long into the night. John went to sleep with a small smile on his mouth. He had a plan.

* * *

John felt nervous as he knocked on the front door.

The doorman, Billy, answered it fairly fast. "Dr. Watson! It is good to see you."

John nodded back. "Would I be able to see Mr. Holmes? Is he free?"

Billy's eyebrows shot up. "We would have to check with Miss Donovan. But it's Monday and he never sees people on Mondays."

Trying not to look annoyed, John took a steading breath. "I know, Billy. I'm not here to see him as a client. I want to see him as a friend. Would you let him know I am here?"

Billy nodded and waved John in to wait in the foyer. A few minutes later he escorted John to Sherlock's door.

Sherlock answered quickly to John's knock. He looked very tired, his smile of greeting not reaching his eyes.

"Could we walk around the garden a little? It's a lovely day outside." John asked, feeling nervous about what he wanted to bring up.

Sherlock agreed and they walked through the main part of the house to get to the garden.

John often had spent time out here in the past, and he guided them to a deep quiet corner. There was a bench overlooking a pond of goldfish, and a willow tree providing dappled shade from the afternoon sunlight. They wouldn't be disturbed here.

"Sherlock," John started when they had settled on the bench, "I had a few days, thinking over everything from the last time I was here. You said I could either choose between having you a consort a few hours a week, or being a drug addict. But I propose that there is a third option."

Sherlock glanced at John and sighed. "I can't quit both, John. You haven't seen me when I don't get what I need. I can't sit still. Can't concentrate. I'm even more rude and brisk than I usually am, snapping at everyone around me. I can't sleep or relax when I'm like that. It's like ants are crawling all over my body practically."

John had seen a few patients withdrawing from drugs, and a lot of what Sherlock described mirrored that.

There was a small dandelion growing at the base of the bench, something the gardeners had missed. Reaching down, John picked it, twirling it between his fingers. "You were only in your early twenties when you were in France, right? Well, you dealt with things then with the options that occurred to you, and they have been effective enough you haven't questioned them. They keep you functional, have brought you wealth. But at what cost?" John asked softly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

John straddled the bench, to face Sherlock better. "May I ask, Sherlock, if you have had other relationships since you've been back in England?"

"Well, not many, but that is likely more due to my impatience with most people, rather than my career." Sherlock replied, watching the fish swimming lazily.

John felt a flare of irrational jealousy, thinking of Sherlock with other men. He knew it was ridiculous. He had had his fair share of lovers over the years, after all.

"So, they were aware of your job? You didn't hide it from them, and the relationships ended when they found out?" John dared to ask, wanting to know more about his past, but fearing the answers he may get.

"I've never hidden my career from anyone, John. I am who I am. Take me or leave me." Sherlock scoffed. "And the few relationships I've had...they were clients initially."

John felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. "Wh-what? Didn't you say that you weren't attracted to your clients? That the whole game was to avoid getting physical with them?"

Giving a small shrug, he looked unrepentant. "There are always exceptions to any rule, John. Over the many years I have been a consort, there have been a few clients that I played the game with, and at some point, eased up on them. Let them win."

"What? Who? When?" John leaned forward, not even caring that he wasn't making much sense. This changed things.

Sherlock glanced up, shrugging again. "Victor, Sebastian...Does it matter? There hasn't been anyone for a couple years." He looked back at John. "Surely you didn't think I had been a monk all this time? I doubt my list of past lovers is longer than average for most men my age."

John got off the bench, walking away to look down at the view of the Thames, far off in the distance. He took a few deep breaths, trying to cool down. Why was this bothering him so much? Sherlock had lovers in the past, just like John had.

He returned to the bench. "Sorry about that. I just needed a moment. So, were they like me? Did it bother them that you were a consort? Did it stop the relationships from progressing?"

"Well, I don't think those relationships were serious enough for it to become an issue. They ended after a few months, when the physical side faded, no hard feelings." Sherlock answered. "But with your initial question, you were trying to ask how my life has been affected by being a whore, correct?"

John sighed. "Yes. Surely it has had some detrimental effects. Kept people away that you would have enjoyed knowing. Limited the opportunities available to you." He searched for concrete examples. "Like your experiments. Would people take your work seriously if you wanted to publish your results?"

Sherlock was quiet, just staring into the pond.

John pushed on. "And if not me, is being a consort keeping you from getting or keeping a relationship? I don't see many examples of consorts staying in the business long once they are serious with someone."

"Fine." Sherlock said without inflection. "You have made your point. It would be better if I wasn't a whore. But being an addict would be worse."

John straddled the bench again. "You have been doing OK with things, and I am amazed at all you have achieved, Sherlock. But I think you need to consider the other options, other ways, you could satisfy your mental needs."

Sherlock got off the bench, walking around the pond, turning to glare at John over it. "You think I haven't tried? When we moved to this house, I spent a fortune constructing the lab, stocking the library. They aren't enough."

John got up, walking to Sherlock and taking him into his arms, giving him a long hug. He felt relieved when his hug was returned. They had stirred up a lot of emotions today.

Taking his hand, John led him back to the bench. Sitting Sherlock down, John stepped behind him and put his hands on his shoulders, massaging them while he thought about everything. Enjoying touching him, and the way the tall man responded to his touch. He stroked away the tension, feeling Sherlock relaxing.

"I think there is another way. We just have to look hard for it." He moved to sit with Sherlock, taking his hand. "You like games, so I'm going to propose a new one. Your challenge is to use that great brain of yours to find another option, another way to satisfy your needs. It can be anything, as long as you don't harm others or yourself. You can enlist the help of anyone you want."

Sherlock didn't look too convinced. "It's impossible. I've already tried so many things."

"You need to try harder, Sherlock," John said earnestly. "Don't you see that we can't continue if you stay a consort?" John wished he could just accept Sherlock's job, but he knew he couldn't. "I feel selfish, asking this huge thing of you. But please, please, Sherlock. Do it for us. Do it so we can have a future together. I love you so much, and want to be with you."

John hugged Sherlock tight. Sherlock had said he loved him, but did he really? Were his feelings deep enough to make him try? John pressed his head against his shoulder, just hoping his message got through.

Finally, he felt Sherlock pulling back, and he looked up at his face. Scared that Sherlock would just shake his head, refuse to even try. Scared he would turn away and ask John to leave.

"So, if I win, I get you?" Sherlock said, his eyes soft and unsure. The vulnerability there just about broke John's heart.

John raised his face, kissing him lightly. "Yes. We'll both win. I get you too."

Sherlock gave a small smile in return. "Well, my prize is better, I think. Even if it's slightly damaged from the war." He nudged John's shoulder. "Fine. Let's do this. Is there a time limit?"

Beaming, John fumbled for an answer. "Um, how about a month?" If he had to wait much longer to have Sherlock, he would probably die.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I need to find other methods, test them, and get one working well enough that it replaces a system that took me years to perfect? I can't do that in a month."

Well, he had a point. "OK, two months. We can't have this lingering on forever either. It doesn't have to be perfect by then, we can still tweak it afterwards." John felt excited that Sherlock was going to try. "But by the end, you have to go at least a whole week without being a consort, to prove the new method works."

They discussed the new game further, exploring many ideas.

* * *

"You are so good at reading people, Sherlock. Surely there are many places that could use that skill." John was lying on the grass, enjoying the sun on his face. Feeling relaxed and lazy now, enjoying Sherlock's company. "I once joked with Sally about that. She was talking about how you match up the consorts and clients so well. I said you should start a matchmaker service. Find me a wife."

"A wife? Oh really..." Sherlock drawled, dragging the piece of grass he had been playing with down the side of John's neck.

John chuckled, just wanting to tease him. "It was before we got together. When I was admiring you from afar and thought you were way out of my reach."

Sherlock stole a quick kiss. "I don't think I could be polite enough to be a matchmaker. I'd get impatient dealing with virgins and their hovering mothers."

"Maybe a staffing consultant? You could help companies pick good employees like you do here?"

"Hmmm... it's a possibility." Sherlock moved closer, smiling down at John. "Shall I consult with your staff, sir?" His hand moved down John's stomach. "I have a job or two in mind for it."

Groaning, John grabbed Sherlock's hand as it was passing his belt. He rolled him over onto his back. "Quit trying to distract me." He glared playfully down into his green eyes. God, he loved this man so much. "Aye, what about working with the peelers? That could be interesting."

Sherlock scoffed. "That lot down at Great Scotland Yard? They don't know their asses from their elbows. Plus most police work is handling petty crime. Robbery and dealing with drunks."

"But you could help them with interviewing suspects. Tell them if they have the right person." John argued back.

Sherlock toyed with John's top button. "It all sounds dreadfully dull. I don't think it would supply enough challenging material to meet my needs. Plus, a lot of waiting around for a good case to occur." He grinned. "Can't you just imagine me, running around town after suspects, jumping from building to building, in hot pursuit of some scoundrel who took a meat pie from Mrs. Lovett?"

John chuckled at the image. "Waving your baton at him, yelling 'Stop, Thief!'"

"I'd rather just stay here and wave my baton at you." Sherlock grinned at his bad euphemism.

"Oh gee...," John smirked back. "Sweet words like that make me swoon."

They exchanged warm looks, and then it led to some pretty intense kissing. John finally got his bearings, pulling away with promises to return tomorrow to work with Sherlock some more on this.

He walked the long way home, feeling much more hopeful about their future together than he ever had. They could work this out. They just had too. Sherlock was too amazing a man to let slip away.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Major Edit! I posted a longer version of this chapter Sunday night, but woke up Monday morning & wanted to do changes to the 2nd half. As it was a very long chapter, it will actually work better as two separate ones. I'll post the revised version of chapter 18 in the next day or so.

-Wicker: Furniture made out of woven plant stalks (such as rattan) has been around since Ancient Egypt. It spread through the Roman Empire and by 17th century, was common in Europe. It was very popular in the Victorian era, used indoors and out, and was considered more sanitary than upholstered furniture.

-Peeler: : "policeman," 1817, British colloquial, originally a member of the Irish constabulary, named for Sir (at that time Mr.) Robert Peel (1788-1850) who founded the Irish Constabulary". Sometimes they are also called 'bobbies' after his first name.

-Great Scotland Yard: The Metropolitan Police Service was formed in London in 1829 by Robert Peel. Their original headquarters were a former house on Whitehall Place, with the public rear entrance on a street called Great Scotland Yard. Early cops weren't very respected in Victorian times, as there were concerns that a uniformed force would be used by the government to quash protests and repress the rights of the less fortunate. Others resented the costs and doubted its effectiveness. In response to these concerns, they tried to seem as non-military as possible, with relatively plain navy blue uniforms and tall helmets, and they only carried a truncheon (baton). To keep costs down, the wages were low. Unfortunately, this didn't attract the highest quality applicants. The 1st policeman hired in London was sacked after only four hours, due to drunkenness. This didn't help with public confidence of the force.

-Mrs. Lovett & Meat Pies: She was a fictional character in penny dreadful stories, starting with 'A String of Pearls' (1846), that featured Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. He killed people and she made them into meat pies. Stephen Sondheim made a musical based on the story in 1979. Tim Burton made a film version in 2007 starring Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter.


	18. Chapter 18

_**** Some of you may have already read this. I posted two parts of Chapter 17 on Sunday night, but when I woke up Monday, thought it would work better if I edited the second part a bit. Here it is now.**_

* * *

John chuckled as Sally poked him, making him jump a little. "Stop that."

"What? Did you feel something? Maybe it was a ghost or a spirit." She gave him a wide-eyed scared look, but she couldn't hold it very long before grinning back at him.

Greg leaned forward from his seat behind them. "Would you two sauceboxes shut it? They are about to start."

"Yes, Father." Sally's tone was completely sarcastic.

She ignored the irritated sigh he gave in response. John grinned at the exchange. She liked pushing Greg's buttons the most, although she teased all the rest of the senior staff often.

"I hope they get going soon." Mrs. Hudson added, from beside Greg. She had recovered well from her fever and was almost back to normal now.

Claire appeared in front of the curtain, smiling at the small audience of four. Her black dress made her almost disappear as she lowered the lighting until only the lamp she held was on. It lit her face from below, making it look still beautiful, but somehow eerie. Washing out the color.

She stood quietly, getting their attention. "Tonight, ladies and gentleman, you have the privilege of being in the presence of a man of great powers. He is able to contact the spirit world, and will pass along their messages. First, he will open a channel to that world. Then, you will be allowed behind the curtain, one by one, to talk privately with this great man. Contact your loved ones who have passed over to the other side through him."

Walking to the side, she pulled on a cord, and the dark curtain was pulled back, showing Sherlock sitting at a table covered with a long dark tablecloth. The room beyond was darkened as well, the only illumination a single candle on the table near him. It flickered, lighting his face from below. His cheekbones stood out, and his skin was very pale. Heavy dark black make-up encircled his eyes, making him almost unrecognizable. A deep purple scarf with silver accents was wrapped elegantly around his head in a loose turban, covering his hair entirely. He was wearing a dark caftan; the sleeves folded up to his elbows.

"May I present The Great Carnac!" Claire announced, lifting a hand towards him.

Glancing at each other, Sally and John chuckled but clapped their hands a few times, joining in with Greg and Mrs. Hudson.

"Silence please now…," Claire said, in a hushed whisper. "He needs absolute silence while he summons the spirits to us." She turned down her lamp, so the only light in the room was Sherlock's candle. It seemed over-bright in the dark room.

Sherlock sat tall and proud, easily drawing everyone's attention. He lifted the candle, circling it over the table top. John realized there was a human skull on the table, the candlelight flicking over it. Sherlock started chanting, the words foreign and mysterious, his low baritone carrying through the quiet room. His one hand kept moving the candle in small circles, as he closed his eyes, leaning his head back, concentrating hard as he chanted.

Opening his eyes again, he looked intently down at the skull and rubbed his free hand over the top of it. His chanting increased in volume, getting more urgent.

The candle went out, leaving them in complete darkness, and Sherlock stopped chanting. It seemed even darker and quieter than before, from it happening so suddenly. John could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle in awareness.

And then he saw it. The skull was glowing in the darkness. The face and top of it were covered with a dancing blue flame.

"He has brought the spirits here!" Claire said, awe and wonder in her tone.

Sherlock was chanting again, low and fast, still staring intently at the skull. And then he passed his hand over the skull. The blue flame was now on his hand, moving and dancing.

"He is a now a vessel for the spirits! They have accepted him!" Claire announced, her voice proud and amazed.

Staring at his hand, Sherlock lifted it to be near his face, the faint blue light illuminating his features. He brought up his other hand, transferring the flames to be in both hands. His face was calm the whole time, showing no signs of pain.

 _"Caesura_." Sherlock said firmly, and the fire went out.

Claire pulled the curtain back in place, hiding Sherlock behind it again, and then she turned up her lamp.

"The Great Carnac will see you individually now. Who would like to go first?" Claire said, walking in front of the curtain.

"First off, what the hell was all that?" Greg said, sounding a bit irritated.

Claire smirked a bit at his outburst, but schooled her features, looking serene. "Please sir. You must be quiet or we will ask you to leave. Would you like to talk to The Great Carnac yourself?"

He stood up. "Fine. I'll do that." He walked quickly to the curtain, pushing it aside to get through. "Sherlock, what the hell were you doing?"

Even though they couldn't see him saying the last sentence, it was obvious he wasn't putting up with any of the theatrical nonsense.

Sherlock was speaking in a low tone, and Sally, Mrs. Hudson and John shamelessly tried to catch his words. He must have quieted Greg down, because they didn't hear anything else they could make out.

They looked at each other, shrugging. When they tried to talk, Claire shushed them with warnings of angering the spirits.

Five minutes later, Greg stepped out, looking strangely subdued. He went to his seat without looking at any of them.

Mrs. Hudson and then Sally followed, both coming out with pensive expressions. The quietness was growing, building a tension and almost dread in John. This was just ludicrous. It was just their friend, Sherlock, behind the curtain. Certainly no medium holding special powers.

John was the last to go in.

Sherlock was sitting at the table, with the single lit candle. He waved his hand towards the chair across from him. He kept his expression quiet, giving nothing away. "Well, do you want your fortune told?"

John shrugged, trying not to laugh just to break the tension. "Um…well, you can if you want to please yourself. I should warn you, I don't believe in any of this."

Sherlock waved his hand over the skull. "You saw the spirits earlier. Why do you not tremble?"

"I'm not cold." John quipped.

"Why do you not turn pale?"

"I'm not sick."

"Why do you not ask for your fortune to be told?"

'I'm not silly." John had always liked to banter with Sherlock. It was even more fun now, trying to make him break out of his 'Great Carnac' character.

The spiritualist nodded and placed his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers under his chin. His pale eyes looked at John, unflinching. "You are cold, you are sick, and you are silly."

John was tempted to stick his tongue out at Sherlock, just to provoke a reaction. But he reigned in the impulse. "Oh really? Prove it."

Sherlock calmly returned his stare. "You are cold, because you are alone. You are sick, because you keep the highest and sweetest feeling given to man far away from you. You are silly, because even though you suffer, you will not beckon it to approach, or stir one step to meet it where it waits you."

"Sherlock…" John started.

"There is no one of that name here. Your time is done now. Please leave." Sherlock said, lowering his palms to the table and closing his eyes. He started chanting in a low tone. John was pretty sure he caught a Latin word or two he recognized.

"Sherlock…" John tried again, but the lousy berk wasn't paying him any attention. Sighing, he left.

* * *

"So, what did you think? What did you like? What can we do better?" Claire asked, passing the bottle of wine to Sally.

Mrs. Hudson lifted her glass, and the other senior staff followed her lead, lifting their glasses as well. "I say, it was quite the show." She pronounced with a smile, clinking glasses with the others. They all downed their wine, setting their wine glasses down firmly.

"Hear, hear!" Greg smiled warmly. "I wasn't too sure about everything at first, but I found it quite convincing by the end."

Sally grinned at Sherlock. "But you must tell us how you did that thing with the blue flame. How did you not get burned?"

Giving a cheeky grin back, Sherlock shook his head. "I can not tell you the secrets from the other world. They have been told to me in confidence, and I must bear this heavy burden of knowledge alone."

"More like heavy burden of horse manure." John shot back, giving Sherlock a wink.

Greg poured everyone more wine. "Well, the name is shite, that's for sure. The Great Carnac? It's bloody awful."

Sherlock pouted slightly. "It's from the great Carnac Stones in Brittany. They have been there thousands of years, and no one knows their secrets. Like Stonehenge, but better."

"Then why don't you call yourself 'Stonehenge Man' or something? Nobody has even heard of those Carnac Stones." Greg grumbled.

Claire held up her hand to get everyone's attention. "I haven't really liked the Carnac name either." She shot Sherlock an apologetic look. "I have some paper here for notes. Everyone, just shout out possible names and we will sift through them after to decide what is best."

"How about 'The Master of Wraiths'?" Sally said dramatically.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Or 'The Scarlet Seer'."

"I like the word 'Alchemist'. And you like science stuff." Greg added.

"The Soothsayer of Specters." Sally threw back.

"The Scarlet Sage." Mrs. Hudson said, looking to Claire to make sure she wrote it down.

"The Oracle."

"The Messenger of Miasma!"

"The Scarlet Ambassador of the Dead."

John watched the volley of ideas like it was a tennis match, a small smirk on his face. Sherlock was looking a bit pained at the suggestions. John was pretty sure he was just being moody because they rejected his name idea.

Sally turned to Mrs. Hudson with a huff. "Why do all your names contain the word 'Scarlet'? The Scarlet Sage, The Scarlet Seer…"

The older woman shrugged. "I was kind of envisioning Sherlock wearing an iconic long, red coat, a scarlet coat. And whenever he leaves a room, it would dramatically swirl around. It would help the name stick."

Greg looked at John. "What about you, Doctor? You haven't suggested anything."

John glanced at Sherlock and shrugged. "I don't know if a name like this is really the way to go. You aren't doing the show in large theatres. You said you are thinking of doing it for small groups of a dozen or so. I think your name should be more normal, like Harry Houdini. He doesn't call himself 'Mr. Escapo' or something like that."

"Well, I don't want to use my real name, of course." Sherlock said, nodding.

Mrs. Hudson reached over, laying a hand on Sherlock's arm. "I know. William Scott."

Sherlock looked a little surprised, but then nodded. "I like that, actually."

Sally wrinkled up her nose. "William Scott? That is so dreadfully dull!"

Smirking slightly, Sherlock gave her a level look. "They are my first and third names."

Laughing, Greg slapped his back lightly. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes? I never knew."

The group went on to discuss other possibilities for the show, over several more bottles of wine. John hadn't laughed so hard in a long time.

* * *

When everyone was finally leaving, Sherlock put a hand on John's arm to hold him back. "Can we talk a bit before you go?"

John nodded, wishing everyone goodnight as they left Sherlock's wing. He went to the sofa, their sofa. Sherlock joined him there, snuggling up against his side.

"So, what do you really think?" Sherlock asked, the firelight leaving half his face in shadow.

John thought for a moment, knowing Sherlock wanted his real opinion, not just polite reviews. "So, your plan is to put on this show and tell everyone's fortune. Is this going to satisfy your needs?"

"Well, the first part is to just get their attention and be theatrical. Everyone likes to be entertained. The one-on-ones are where I really will be challenged." Sherlock smiled, looking confident.

Thinking of his own session with Sherlock, he wasn't so sure. "Are you just going to tell them vague information that could apply to anyone? Isn't that what most fortune tellers do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Who cares what they do. Do you remember the first day, in your interview? I was able to read you and tell you all that information really fast."

John nodded. "Yes…"

"It's like that. If I had told you all that information while waving my hands over a crystal ball, telling you the spirits told me all of it…" Sherlock waved his hands around like he was trying to conjure something.

"Oh. So you are going to read the person, and then pretend it's information from the dead relative." John could see that working. It had been amazing how much Sherlock could get from the smallest clues. "And once they are convinced you are legitimate?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I will try to help them. They are asking for help from their dead relatives, after all. Everyone seems to believe that spirits have more knowledge than the living, that they keep learning after death."

Leaning closer, John gave him a big hug. "Well, I am very impressed. I never would have thought of this idea, but I think it has a real chance of working. And Claire really seems to be enjoy being your assistant."

"I promised to split the ticket sales with her, if she is my business manager on this venture. She will be the one booking the venues and all that." Sherlock said proudly.

Putting a hand along his cheek, John leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock gave one of his pleased hums, shifting to be closer. Things were starting to intensify when a thought popped into John's head, and he jumped back.

"Your hands! Let me look at them!" He took Sherlock's hands, tilting them towards the firelight, looking for any signs of damage, but seeing none. "OK, I know it's supposed to be a secret, but you have to tell me what you did, Sherlock. As your doctor, I need to know if you are risking burning yourself at these shows."

Chuckling, Sherlock pulled his hands back and stole another quick kiss. "Fine, I'll tell you, but it's a secret. No one else can know." He looked around dramatically, making sure they were alone. "It's actually just aloe vera gel, like you used in your balm, mixed with a little ethanol. I'm thinking of trying a few additions. Borax will make the flame green; potassium chloride will make it purple. And maybe I'll add some unusual scent to it."

"You lit alcohol on fire and rubbed it all over your hands?" John couldn't believe how calm Sherlock was being about this.

"Next time you come, I'll show you in the lab. It's quite safe. I make sure my sleeves are pulled up. Don't want a repeat of the silk robe accident, after all." Sherlock said softly.

John huffed. "I wish you would find a safer way to impress the audience. Or just keep the flames on the skull, not on your hands." He got up, stretching a little.

Sherlock stood up too, rubbing his hands along John's back. "You are tired. Why don't you just stay here? You like sleeping on the sofa, or you could use one of the bedrooms upstairs."

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had asked John to stay the night. He was tempted, but it didn't feel right. "Not yet, Sherlock. Later, when we are done the game."

Although he didn't push it, John could tell Sherlock was a little irritated by his answer. John gave him a quick kiss. "Is it OK if I come by tomorrow after work? It feels like we didn't get much alone time tonight."

Sherlock brightened at that. "Yes, that sounds good. Some time alone, just the two of us."

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: I don't want this story to be too long. I should be able to wind it up in another chapter or two, hopefully!

-Mrs. Lovett & Meat Pies: She was a fictional character in penny dreadful stories, starting with 'A String of Pearls' (1846), that featured Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. He killed people and she made them into meat pies. Stephen Sondheim made a musical based on the story in 1979. Tim Burton made a film version in 2007 starring Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter.

-Saucebox: Another fun Victorian insult meaning "one addicted to making saucy remarks".

-Great Carnac: The Carnac Stones are the world's largest collection (over 3000) of megalithic stones erected around 3300 BCE or earlier. They are close to the village of Brittany, on the French side of the English Channel. I picked the silly name of 'The Great Carnac' as a reference to Johnny Carson's psychic character 'Carnac The Magnificent'.

- _Caesura:_ Latin for 'pause'

-John's Fortune: Their dialogue is from Charlotte Bronte's novel, 'Jane Eyre' (1847), with a few small changes to suit my scene better. The excerpt is from the scene where Jane goes in to see the gypsy visiting the house to have her fortune told. The gypsy is actually the owner of the house, Rochester, in disguise. He reveals this to her by the end of the scene.

Please think of this as homage to this great novel, which I encourage everyone to read if you haven't already. In future chapters, you will see that the words from the scene have a different context in my story than in the novel, and it changes their meaning slightly.

-Blue flame: Please use caution about this, as my information is from the Internet and I don't want anyone trying this and getting hurt. Apparently, you can ignite hand sanitizer and it will burn blue, due to the alcohol content. Aloe vera gel with rubbing alcohol added is a basic homemade hand sanitizer, and what Sherlock prepares for his trick.

-Spiritualism: Victorians were obsessed with death and mourning, which is no wonder with such high mortality rates and poor medical treatments. It was a time when many things were being questioned and changing, and people didn't know where to turn for answers. Spiritualism is the belief that spirits of the dead existed in an afterlife and they wanted to communicate with the living. It was also believed that the spirits were continuing to evolve, and could give useful knowledge about moral and ethical issues. It was mostly in the US and Europe, with the middle and upper classes. People went to seances and other demonstrations of mediums communicating with the spirit world, and entertaining theatrics was a big part of it. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert went to seances, and after his death from typhoid, she held them at Windsor Castle to communicate with him. Arthur Conan Doyle joined a society to scientifically investigate spiritualism, and became a huge advocate, writing many books on the subject in the last part of his life.


	19. Chapter 19

"Russell, it is good to see you." John shook the patient's hand, and pulled up a stool. "This is my apprentice, Miss Hooper. I hope you don't mind her assisting me today."

The young redhead smiled at Molly, making her blush slightly and look down. "No, no problem at all."

"What brings you to my office today?" John had a notepad handy.

Russell looked down, rubbing his hand over one knee. "I was working with my fencing master, and twisted a little too far in a lunge. I can walk, but it is very swollen and sore."

John nodded in understanding. "I didn't know you fenced."

"Yes, it's a family tradition. I like the intensity of a good bout."

Glancing quickly at Molly, John nodded. "Well, let's get you behind the screen. Please remove your trousers and your drawers if they go past your knees. We need to see the joint." John stood up to give Russell a hand getting off the examination table.

The young man walked unevenly behind the screen, clearly favoring his bad leg.

He came out wearing a long untucked dress shirt, and nothing below the waist. John assisted him to lie back on the examination table.

John motioned Molly to his side. "We need to see where it is sore and try to determine if the joint is pulled or torn. Please watch what I do, and then you can try."

Palpating around the knee, John paid attention to Russell's involuntary tensing and small jerks of pain, trying to keep his touch as light as possible. He lifted his leg, moving the lower leg back and forth to evaluate the joint movement.

Motioning Molly closer, he could tell she was nervous. Her touches on Russell's knee were very tentative, and she shrank away when he made a pained noise. John patted her arm, and she stepped back.

"We will wrap your knee to give it some support and you will use crutches. Keep your weight off the joint and allow the swelling to go down, and heal a little. I am reasonably confident it is a pulled muscle. We will have you come back in two weeks to see your progress." John made some quick notes on his pad.

Sighing, Russell nodded. "I thought you would say something like that."

He was soon redressed and headed to the reception desk.

"So, how was that for you?" John asked Molly softly. She had been coming several afternoons a week, assisting him.

Molly shook her head. "A bit not good, I think. I thought with doing this more, I would get comfortable working with patients. But I am awful at it."

John looked fondly at his friend. "Do you agree with my diagnosis?"

She nodded firmly. "I thought it was a possible meniscal tear, maybe a tendon. But it makes sense to rest it and see how it looks in a few weeks."

"Yes, exactly. That is my opinion as well." John made notes about the visit.

He turned to face Molly. "How are you feeling about things so far?"

Molly gave a tentative smile. "I like applying my knowledge. It is like a puzzle, matching the symptoms to the possibilities. But, I..."

John nodded. "I can tell you still feel a little shy, especially around men. Did it bother you that the last patient was bare below the waist?"

Sighing, Molly put her hands into the pockets of the lab coat she wore over her dress. "Well, frankly, it does. I've led a fairly sheltered life, John."

"Well, perhaps I can check with some associates and see if you could work in a morgue for a little while. You would get experience with diagnosis and handling bodies, but wouldn't need to feel nervous around them. If that doesn't sound too grisly to you?" John asked.

Molly's eyes brightened. "No, I often helped prepare bodies with neighbors in my old flat. It doesn't bother me."

John gave her a genuine smile. "I'm really proud of you, Molly. You are doing an excellent job."

She gave a small, pleased smile back.

* * *

Claire appeared at the dining room door, where John was visiting with Mrs. Hudson. "I heard you were here. Can you come with me?" The normally collected beauty was agitated.

John jumped up, giving his apologies to Mrs. Hudson. "Of course. Show me the way."

Her walk was fast, and as John followed her through the mansion, he saw she was still in her black show dress. She had removed the blond wig she wore over her raven hair though.

His heart skipped a beat when she hesitated before the door to Sherlock's wing. Her face was tight with worry. "Look, something happened at the session tonight. He did the fire show, and then started seeing clients, like he always does, spending about ten minutes with each."

John furrowed his brows. "What happened then?"

"He had a client who was behind the curtain with him over twenty minutes. I was right about to interrupt them to see if something was wrong, when the man strode out. Sherlock called me in and said he was done for the night, even though there were unseen clients left. He never does that." Her eyes were concerned, her whispered explanation rushed.

"Was he acting strangely? Anything you noticed?" John asked, wanting to prepare himself.

She shook her head. "Not really. Quieter and more withdrawn than normal. He is moody sometimes after shows. But I have a bad, bad feeling about that client."

John trusted Claire's judgment. She was a smart woman, and in her many years as a consort, she had learned to read people. Probably not as well as Sherlock did, but his talent was rare.

Feeling tense as she knocked and then opened the door, John followed her into the wing. Sherlock was sitting in an upholstered chair facing the fireplace, poking at the logs. The firelight lit up his features and John could see the moodiness there. Something was bothering him.

"Hi Sherlock." John would normally kiss him hello, but felt inhibited by Claire's presence.

Sherlock flicked his eyes up, taking them in, and went back to jabbing at the fire.

Turning to Claire, John shrugged. "I'll talk to him. Thanks for bringing me here."

She nodded, and soon left.

Moving the other wingback chair, John set it beside Sherlock's. "Claire is really concerned about you." He sat down; looking towards the man he had such deep feelings for. "What happened tonight, Sherlock?"

Huffing, Sherlock threw more wood onto the fire and poked the logs into place.

John wondered if he would talk about it. Maybe Sherlock needed a few days before he could. He thought they were at the point they could share most things. "Claire mentioned the last client was talking with you a long time. Did something bad happen? Did he not like what you told him?"

This got another impatient huff in response. Sherlock let out a long breath, and looked at John, letting him see the sadness in his eyes. John had never seen him like that before. It was like his internal confidence, his sense of self, was shaken. That man had gotten past Sherlock's walls.

"It was someone from my past, who I haven't talked to since France. Someone I thought I'd never talk to again." Sherlock confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. John had to strain to catch the words.

No wonder he was upset. That had been a hard time in his life. "A Frenchman? One of your early clients?" He wanted to ask if it was a fellow user in the opium dens, but didn't want to bring them up when Sherlock was already so low.

Shaking his head slowly, Sherlock looked lost and unsure of himself. "No, no one like that...it was my...," he looked into the flames, his chest heaving with a quick breath, "...my older brother."

John was shocked by the news. "Oh, I didn't know you had any siblings. Are you very much alike?"

"He's a pompous ass with an inflated sense of his importance in the world." Sherlock said dryly.

"Hmmmm..." John tried for a joke, hoping to lighten Sherlock's mood a little, "sounds just like you." He remembered how he had followed Harriet around when they were young, practically inseparable, trying to picture Sherlock that way with a brother.

Sherlock glared at John, clearly not amused in the slightest. "Mycroft Holmes is quite an influential man with the Tories. I'm sure he has weaseled his way in deep with them all."

"Do you get along with him at all now? Have you been in any type of contact since France?" John needed to know the background.

Getting up, Sherlock went to a side table and poured a couple glasses of wine. He passed one to John as he sat down. "The last time we talked, I was filthy, stoned out of my mind, lying on a bed in an opium den. He insisted I leave at once, that I should clean up and return to England with him. When I declined, he said I was cut off, that he would tell our parents about my state." He took a big sip from his glass. "I'll never forget the way he looked at me. Full of disgust that I had sunk so low."

John reached over, putting his hand over Sherlock's, where it was resting near his knee. "Did you ever go to see him or your parents when you cleaned up and came back here?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock went back to poking the fire angrily. "I only saw him from a distance at the theatre, places like that. I'm sure he knew what my career was, and that same look of disgust was in his eyes. No matter how successful I became, no matter how many influential people came to my balls, his look has never changed."

"And tonight you talked." John prompted.

"Yeah." Sherlock threw down the poker, the metal clanging loudly against the stone hearth. He got up, pacing back and forth. "He mocked me, saying there was no bottom to the depths I would sink to. Said he never told our parents how pathetic I had become, never told them the whole story. He boasted his own accomplishments, developing the reform act, helping the Tories get into power."

"He does sound like a pompous ass." John got up, and went to Sherlock. Stopped his pacing and took him in a tight hug. Breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock sunk into it. Guiding them back to their sofa, John got them lying down. Holding Sherlock, stroking along his arm, feeling him unwinding.

Lifting his face from where he had tucked it, the curve between Sherlock's shoulder and neck, John looked into Sherlock's light eyes. Some of his pain had eased, but he was still troubled by it all. "I love you, you know." He used Sherlock's words from a few weeks ago deliberately.

Sherlock blinked fast, his tears almost spilling over. "Yes. I love you too." His voice was shaky, but his gaze met John's, the emotions in them were so raw. It made him look young and vulnerable.

Feelings of protectiveness surged inside John, and he kissed Sherlock hard, desperately. Wanting him to feel how important he was to John, to really know it, deep down in his bones. To help shore up his self esteem that had been shaken so badly.

The kisses were intense, but eased after about ten minutes. John lifted his face, liking the Sherlock who returned his gaze much more. Eyes shining with feelings for John, his lips kiss swollen, looking tired now after all that had happened. There was still hurt there, but it wasn't front and center anymore.

"I'm sorry things are like that with your family, Sherlock." John ran a hand over his messy curls. "But you have created your own family here. People who know you as you really are now, and love you. People who know that instead of exploiting the people you employ, you give them fair work, a good life. Opportunity for education and advancement. You are a positive force in this world."

Sherlock chuckled, but John could see the words sunk in. "Sad to be in a world where I get credit for not exploiting other human beings. For treating them with the dignity everyone deserves."

"Sadly, it is rare. Slavery in the British Empire was only abolished the year I was born, after all." John sat up, pulling his rumpled suit into place.

Sherlock followed John, rubbing his shoulders affectionately. His big hands found where John was tense, working to ease out the stiffness. "God, you're old."

John turned to glare at the berk, but got a quick kiss instead. "I'm only five years older than you." He got up, yawning.

Taking his hand, Sherlock gave it a little tug. "Don't go. Stay the night."

He had been asking for this for weeks, and John had declined. It was scary, this state of limbo they were in. John was already so emotionally invested in Sherlock again. But if he didn't 'win' the game, find an alternative to being a consort, could John stay in the relationship?

John's heart overrode his head. He couldn't turn away from the need in Sherlock's eyes. He felt it himself, the pull to be with his love, give comfort as he could, show him how much he cared. He needed it as much as Sherlock did.

When he nodded, the spark of happiness in Sherlock's eyes made it feel like the right decision. After his brother turning away from him earlier, he couldn't have taken John doing it as well, even though it was for different reasons.

Sherlock led them up the stairs, and John felt his heart beating fast. He had never been up here before. The deeper, more private areas of Sherlock's domain. It was dark and quiet. John couldn't make out much. He just followed Sherlock.

In the bedroom, Sherlock shut the door behind them softly. The moon gave enough light, once their eyes adjusted. His eyes were large as he turned to John, pushing his suit jacket off his shoulders.

John finished pulling the garment off. "Um...Sherlock...I don't...I...," he was too tongue tied to find the words.

Sherlock nodded. "I know. Just down to our underwear to be comfortable. I'm not expecting anything else from you tonight." His fingers were working on the buttons of John's vest.

Nodding, John felt more comfortable. He let Sherlock strip off the vest, placing it on a chair. It was different when his hands went to the buttons on his fly. That light touch made John quickly react, feeling embarrassed.

Sherlock must have noticed, but he didn't show any signs that he had. When John was down to underwear, he nudged him towards the bed as he worked on his own shirt and trousers.

Settling under the covers, John watched as Sherlock undressed. It was so domestic, so intimate. Was this what it would be like if they could truly be together? Retiring every night to this room. Having Sherlock close every night? John's heart ached for it. He had been alone so long. Cold and lonely so many nights.

When Sherlock got under the covers, it was John who was needy now. He sought comfort in sliding close to the tall man, sighing in relief when Sherlock gathered him close.

It wasn't enough. John tilted up his face, seeing Sherlock in the pale moonlight, his beautiful man. Couldn't resist kissing him, cupping his face. Getting more intense than it had on the sofa before.

John was fully hard now, and pressed against Sherlock's hip. He was breathing harder, they both were. Sherlock seemed just as aroused, despite saying he wasn't expecting anything.

Not questioning himself, John moved his hand from Sherlock's waist, to the front of his underwear. Sherlock's breath caught, as John cupped him, only a thin layer of silk between them. "Is this OK?" John asked, his own voice raspy. "I want...I want to touch you."

"Yes, yes..." Sherlock moaned, his erection jumping in reaction to John's words.

Fascinated, John pulled down the silk underwear, chuckling a little to himself over the fine material. Only the best for Sherlock. But having Sherlock lying naked against the sheets quickly pulled him back into the moment.

His hands tentatively touched, and grew emboldened by Sherlock's pants and moans. It was even better than his frequent fantasies, kissing him, feeling him gasp against his lips as he hit a sensitive spot. Using that knowledge to work him up even more, so beautiful in his arousal.

It was so much different than his female lovers of the past. More urgent and desperate. No hiding or being ashamed of nakedness or sexual needs. Knowing what types of touch he liked himself, and trying them on Sherlock. It was such a masculine experience, so earthy and real.

He was so involved in Sherlock's reactions, he felt satisfied when he peaked. Watching Sherlock in that moment, giving himself over to pleasure, was so elementally intimate. Sharing it with soft kisses and sweet words. Cuddling along his side after.

A few minutes later, Sherlock's fingers were playing around the waistband of John's underwear, and his arousal rushed back. He was panting by the time Sherlock was undoing his fly, as desperate as he had been in The Courtesan's bedroom. Maybe even worse.

"Please, please, Sherlock." John begged softly, when the younger man simply was looking at his nakedness. When he finally felt his warm, bare hand around him, John moaned. He had wanted this so long. "Yes, so good..."

He babbled like that as Sherlock explored and stroked, teasing John until he begged again, this time for his release. His orgasm was long and intense.

Sherlock was chuckling when they had cleaned up and were cuddling back under the covers. "You are so loud!"

John rolled his eyes, scoffing. "I can still go home, you know. Just because you have magic hands that make me into a babbling fool, doesn't mean I'll stick around to be verbally abused."

Pulling him into a tighter hug, Sherlock pressed a kiss to his temple. "OK, I'll behave." He relaxed against John, worn out by the emotions of the evening. He was soon asleep

For John, it wasn't so simple. This easy intimacy he had with Sherlock was so precious. It seemed to come so naturally to them. They were good at comforting each other. It reminded him of Clara's comments on his last visit, of being there for each other on the hard days.

For so long, he had been alone. When his parents had died when he was only sixteen, he had known he only could rely on himself. Harriet was working long hours as an apprentice, and they hardly saw each other. When they did, she took him into rough bars, drinking too much and flirting with horrible men. He found it depressing and avoided seeing her for a while. He couldn't depend on her. She was barely taking care of herself.

The army had been his family, to a point. He grew up in those first years away. Got along well with his regiment. But so many died in action, or from other causes, that he didn't make as deep attachments in the later years. Kept it friendly only.

Sherlock's words from that practice night came back to him. Was he cold, sick and silly? Here, in Sherlock's bed, in his arms, he certainly didn't feel cold and alone. He felt a part of this rag tag family as well. Mrs. Hudson had practically adopted him, and Sally and Greg felt like siblings. Even Claire and Molly had special places in his heart now.

Was he sick, trying to stay away from being in Sherlock's world too much? Could he really give up the life and people if Sherlock 'lost' the game? Love and family and truly belonging somewhere, versus being cold and alone.

Maybe he could eventually find a woman to marry, make a life with her. Maybe have children. But would anyone ever compare to Sherlock? So smart, funny and wonderful. So incredible it still felt shocking that Sherlock could love him back. Could he ever find a love as deep as the one they shared?

Another thought struck John, and it sent a chill down his spine. What if Sherlock 'won' and retired completely from being a consort? Wouldn't that make him even more appealing to many men? John was sure he had offers daily, but what it was from men who had stayed away before? Who would want him if he had retired? Like John, knew they couldn't be involved if he was intimate with others.

Would Sherlock be satisfied with plain, old damaged John if he could have other good choices? John had more money, nicer clothes, and influential clients now, but it wouldn't compare to men in Sherlock's circles. Old money, better education, and other things they shared on a level John could never reach.

He admired all that Sherlock had done in a few short years, all the people he had helped. What had John done, with his improved circumstances in the last year? He had read a lot, made friends, and eventually rented a fancy apartment and office. So selfish. Sure, he was helping Molly, but was it enough? Could he do more?

He had been a fool, taking for granted the feelings Sherlock had for him. No wonder he had been irritated when John had refused to stay the night. He was working so hard, trying to become the partner John wanted him to be, and John wasn't making an effort in return. Not stirring himself to keep his love. He needed to challenge himself too, be a man deserving of his prize if they both won. He wouldn't keep his prize long if he didn't.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Sorry it's taken a while week to update! That's eons compared to the writing pace I had before. haha

-Bodies in Flats: Up to this period, people usually died at home, being nursed by family members. After death, the family would wash and dress the body, leaving them in room with always at least one attendant for a few days prior to burial. This tradition was called the 'wake', which at this time was watching for the dead person to literally wake up. Medical knowledge was so poor, that sometimes comas were mistaken for death and people were buried alive. Another tradition of the time was that coffins had a cord attached to a bell above ground, in case this happened. By the late Victorian period, bodies were starting to be handled by undertakers and morticians.

-Slave Trade: It has existed since before biblical times all over the world. Transporting enslaved West Africans to the New World was abolished in the British Empire in 1807, and they used their dominance to persuade other countries to do so as well. The US prohibited the importation of slaves in 1808, but domestic slavery didn't end there until after the US Civil War in 1865. John refers to slavery being abolished in 1833 in all of the British Empire.

-Tories: This British political party, who were also called the Conservatives, were under Lord Derby at the time of this story. The term 'Tory' comes from a middle Irish insult that means 'robber, outlaw or brigand'. The other British party is nicknamed the 'Whigs', an old Scottish word meaning cattle thief.

-The Reform Act (1867): Before this was passed, only one million of the seven million adult men of Britain and Wales were eligible to vote. After it passed, two million were eligible. It was supposed to help the Conservative Party, but ironically, they lost power in the election of 1868.


	20. Chapter 20 part 1

Sherlock woke when John shifted in his sleep, and he automatically held him closer, making sure the blankets covered him. Pale morning light streamed through the windows, and it was nice to have time to examine the man in his arms.

Although only in his mid-thirties, his hair already had many silver strands amongst the pale gold ones. His tan had faded, but his face still showed his years of working in hot countries. It was not a perfect face, but it spoke of his life, his travels. Sherlock loved the way the creases deepened with John's frequent laughter.

He had filled out since he started working at the house, no longer had the scrawniness that practically screamed about his health battles and financial hardships. It had been good to see the color return to his skin, a healthy flush instead of a drawn pallor. He was energetic and athletic. They had gone on some long rides, Sherlock wearing tight breeches and smirking at the way John's eyes lingered. He had done his share of looking back, admiring the way John handled himself.

This man was so important in Sherlock's life now. How had it changed so much since they met? How had he claimed so much of Sherlock's heart?

John shifted closer, snuggling into Sherlock's warmth, and he stroked along his back soothingly. Would this be his only chance to wake up with John? He was determined to savor it, take it in with every sense.

In two weeks, they would know if Sherlock had won their game or not. If he would have the honor of waking up with John like this for the rest of their lives.

Part of Sherlock pondered on only getting through the next two weeks. He could do this. The sessions as a medium seemed to be working well, challenging his brain enough to satisfy his needs. Claire had taken care to schedule about a dozen clients a session, varying the locations and make up of the group as much as possible. It was interesting to be reading a group of lower middle class women one night, and aristocrats the next.

But deeper down, Sherlock feared failing. Coming so close and not being able to stick to the plan. He knew it was hard to push down his need if it went unsatisfied. Thoughts of escaping into a drugged haze became more and more tempting, until they were a chant loud in his ears, with every beat of his heart, impossible to block out. He couldn't concentrate on anything else when it got like that, couldn't think. He was out of control, driven to do anything for some peace, to stop the pressing need drumming through him.

If he lost control, and went back to using drugs or consort clients, everything would be lost. He feared seeing the disappointment in John's eyes, feared seeing the love in his gaze fading. Feared John turning away, his expression one of disgust.

He must have moved involuntarily, as John woke up then. His eyes were happy, and he stretched up for a soft kiss. Sherlock returned it, needing to burn away his troubling thoughts with the sweet warmth of this man.

John shifted to kiss down Sherlock's neck, making him hum in pleasure. His whiskers were a little scratchy against his skin, but Sherlock liked it. Liked John a bit messy and ungroomed. He was the only one to see John like this now.

"You were thinking about Mycroft, weren't you?" John asked, moving to rest his head on Sherlock's pillow.

Arching an eyebrow, he looked down at John. "I thought I was the only one with special mind reading powers." It was easier to let John think that was what he had been thinking about, than worry him.

Reaching up, John smoothed a finger along Sherlock's brows. "You get a little crease here when you are thinking about something unpleasant. I was hoping it wasn't a reaction to waking up to me in your bed."

Swooping down, Sherlock stole a few deep kisses, until John was making some pleased moans. "No, never a bad reaction to that." He nuzzled into John's neck, wishing they could just stay in bed like this. Maybe forever. Hide away from the world.

Sighing, he rolled away. John grabbed a pillow to prop behind his back, and sat up against the headboard. Sherlock shifted to rest his head on his thigh.

"It's partly Mycroft. I just hate that I'm bothered by what he thinks of me. I'm not bothered by other people that way." Sherlock said softly, feeling irritated just thinking about it. He had hardly even seen the wanker for a decade.

John smoothed the curls back from his forehead. "It's a family thing, I think. There's always a connection there, maybe just from growing up together. Harriet and I were out of contact for years, when I was out of the country. She kept moving in with different drunks, and didn't bother telling me where she was. It always felt awful, when we lost contact."

"Even though she was an alcoholic, you still wanted a relationship with her?"

John nodded slowly, his blue eyes distant. "She's the only family I have left. She anchored me, even though she was flighty for so long. Things have been better since Clara."

Sherlock was quiet, closing his eyes and enjoying John touching his hair. He opened his eyes eventually. "So, you found her when you got back?"

John shrugged. "I wasn't doing so well, with the injury and all. But I ran into a man who knew my parents, a customer from our shop. He knew where she was."

"Do you think I should try for a better relationship with Mycroft? With my parents?"

Giving a half smile, John shrugged. "It's up to you. I don't know them."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock thought about it. He doubted there was anything he could do to erase the perceived sins of his past in the eyes of his family. The name Sherlock Holmes was infamous now as synonymous with The Courtesan. They were a proud family, and he was sure they had distanced themselves from him in all their social circles. Labeled him a bad seed, or the black sheep of the family. The son, who despite a good upbringing, turned to opium and prostitution.

It was hopeless. Beyond his control. He had enough to focus on that mattered much more than people from his distant past.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by John shifting downwards on the bed, lying on his side to face him.

"Sherlock, I've been thinking..." John started, his blue gaze a little unsure.

Taking his hand, Sherlock stroked it softly. "Please, John. Tell me what's on your mind." He felt a bit concerned at John's hesitant manner.

"Would you like, would it be OK if I..." John fumbled, taking a quick breath nervously. "Would you mind if I moved into one of the other bedrooms?"

Sherlock was pleasantly shocked by the request. "No, of course I don't mind. I would love it." He kissed John lightly, still reeling. "But why? Why now?"

Digging his hand into Sherlock's hair, John gave him a sweet smile. "Because I have been a fool. Somehow, I thought I should keep a little distance between us while we play the game. Maybe I thought it would be better for both of us, in case things don't turn out well." John shook his head slowly. "I kept turning you down when you asked me to stay the night."

"Yes, I noticed." Sherlock drawled wryly. It had hurt, every time John declined, every time he made the trip to his own flat, putting that physical distance between them. A sad reminder of their months apart.

John kissed him, love so evident in his tender touch. "I was a fool, thinking it will make any difference. If we have to part, we will both be crushed. Spending more time with you now won't change how devastating that could be. It won't soften it. So, I might as well be here, supporting you, spending as much time as I can with you."

Their kisses were a bit desperate after that, holding each other close and whispering words of love.

But not far away, the dark cloud of his addiction loomed. Threatening to steal away his happiness. Threatening to take this man from his arms forever.

Two more weeks. Only two more weeks. He only had one more consort client left this week, and then a long seven days to get through to prove his new plan worked.

Would his medium work be enough to satisfy his needs? Could he stay balanced and present, without his old supports? It was working well so far, but could it take the full load without everything falling apart?

* * *

"Don't be surprised if Claire arranges a session for you at Osterley Park. The Earl mentioned William Scott, asking what I had heard about this new medium." Vanessa plopped down on the sofa next to Sherlock, grabbing a handful of pistachios from his bowl.

Playfully scowling at her, Sherlock moved his bowl out of her reach so she couldn't steal any more. "What did you tell him?"

She cracked open a shell, popping the nut into her mouth to crunch on. "That I had never had him read me, but I had heard good reports from other clients. Which is true, by the way. There is a real buzz of talk about the mysterious Mr. Scott."

Turning his head, he waved towards Claire, who was sitting at a desk surrounded with correspondence. "I give credit to Claire. She is the one getting me in front of such a wide variety of people, five nights a week."

Claire glanced up, giving him a warm look for his praise. She went back to work, writing her letter. Every day now, she sorted through many requests for William Scott. For confidentiality, a post office box was given to potential clients, with no way to connect the medium to 122 Kebar St.

Sherlock enjoyed spending time in the consort's common room. It was a comfortable room, with many sofas and upholstered chairs for reading a good book or having a long conversation. There were a couple desks off to the side with writing materials, allowing the consorts to keep up with their correspondence while still being social with the group. Most of the consorts unwound there together after seeing their clients, relaxing and sharing stories.

He enjoyed their company, but also valued the snippets of information that came up from their influential clients. Most consorts had long-term regulars, who saw them once or twice a month. They were friendly with them, and discrete. The consorts only talked about clients in their own common room, and nowhere else in the house or elsewhere.

Their idle chatting was interrupted by Claire making a strange noise, a bit of a startled squeak. Chuckling, Sherlock got up and ambled over to her desk, perching on the edge of it. He looked down at the dark-haired beauty, seeing her face glowing with excitement. She was holding a letter of thick, expensive paper, a slight tremor in her hand making the pages shake. His eyebrow arched, curious what had caused such reactions in his normally collected friend.

She grinned widely as she passed the letter to him. He scanned it quickly, and was soon looking back at her, his lips stretching into a grin to match hers.

* * *

Sherlock nodded at the nervous woman before him. "You must take time for your health. You wear yourself thin."

Her large dark eyes were troubled, and although she was not young or small, she seemed as timid as a girl. Blinking quickly, her gaze dipped. "Yes, Mr. Scott. Many have told me this."

"Heed the warning, Lady Ely." He leaned back in his chair, dismissing her.

As she walked out of his enclosure, Sherlock could hear Claire talking softly. Excitement coursed through him, and he took a deep breath to settle himself.

Holding back the curtain, Claire waved the next client in. She was dressed in solid black, the full skirts of her dress rustling as she walked forward. Sherlock rose, his head dipped slightly in respect, but still examining her clothing and motions closely.

When she was seated, he sat as well, and raised his gaze to her face. She was in her late forties, but still had dark brown hair. Her blue eyes were intelligent and looked back at Sherlock just as intently.

"Please begin." Her voice was firm.

Nodding in deference, Sherlock straightened up and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He opened his eyes, looking at the widow with his normal gaze. "You seek contact with your late husband."

There was a flash of pain in her eyes that she quickly masked. She gave a curt nod. In her left hand, she clutched an embroidered handkerchief.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, pausing for effect. He opened them, looking at the middle-aged woman directly. "I sense many things here. You were often together in this room, and you don't use it very much anymore." They were in a large drawing room. The walls were painted white, with gold trim liberally used to highlight the architectural details and the high ceilings. Sherlock's curtain only blocked off a small potion of the huge space.

Her face didn't give away much, but Sherlock's keen eyes caught her tiny reactions.

"You used to dine here together, but now you dine elsewhere." Sherlock said softly. "Lately you have been indulging in comfort foods of your youth, things His Royal Highness could not tolerate."

Her blue eyes snapped to his with that comment, and Sherlock felt a surge of satisfaction. It was always like this, little rushes of pleasure when his deductions were correct. The harder his client was to read, the more intelligent, the more satisfying they were.

" _Sauerbraten, Grünkohl, Salzkartoffel._..". The German words for spiced beef stew, cooked kale and boiled potatoes rolled off his tongue effortlessly, and her surprised gaze rewarded him again. "He didn't like you eating that meal around him, did he?"

She shook her head as she turned her face away, lifting her handkerchief to dab at her eyes. Her grief was not far below the surface.

"He is glad you have moved back to Windsor Palace, and that you have opened Parliament. But he wants you to do more." Sherlock daringly pushed, watching for her reaction.

Twisting her handkerchief now in both hands, the monarch straightened and faced Sherlock. "More." Her voice was dull. She was upset but holding it together.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "You are being pressured by the Prime Minister, pulled politically in many directions, but His Royal Highness was always non-partisan. He wants you to listen to the needs of your people. Think of them, their future. The future for your family, your children..."

She scoffed, turning away as she raised her hand to her mouth, clearly upset again. "Our children..." she said, looking toward the dark windows. "Nothing but trouble. You don't know how I worry about them."

"You miss your husband's help in guiding them."

Her eyes turned back to catch his, pain so evident in them. "And look where that got him? Bertie's behavior killed him. I can't even bear to look at him anymore. Can't bear to have him near."

Sherlock shifted forward. "No, ma'am. On this he is most insistent. He knows you think the visit to Cambridge to talk to Bertie was what weakened him, let the fever later on overwhelm him."

"It was so, I know it." She wiped at her streaming eyes, her grief still fresh although several years had passed.

Shaking his head slowly, Sherlock kept his gaze steady. "No, think back, ma'am. Remember how weak he was on your trip to Ireland that last summer. He had not been well for many years. He doesn't want you to blame Bertie for this."

The woman was weeping softly now, and Sherlock eased back in his chair. Had he said too much? He quieted, waiting for the widow to collect herself.

Many minutes passed before she straightened in her chair again, her eyes red but meeting his. "You see a lot, Mr. Scott."

He dipped his head at the compliment. "It is my pleasure to serve you, ma'am."

"Come back next week. Ponsonby will arrange it with you." She stood quickly, her skirt rustling around her short, stout frame. With a final nod, she walked out of his enclosure.

He heard Claire's soft voice, and then the closing of some doors.

Claire peeped behind his curtain, giving him a wide grin. At his answering smile, she rushed over, sitting in the chair the monarch had so recently vacated.

"I am still shaking!" Her smile was excited.

Sherlock could only grin back. "She wants you to arrange a return visit next week with her secretary, Lord Ponsonby."

Claire jumped up, rushing around to drop onto Sherlock's lap to hug him tight. "Dear God in Heaven! Can this really be happening?"

Rubbing her back, Sherlock listened to her excited chatter, and felt the tension inside him unwinding. This was it. This was something incredible.

* * *

 **-This is part 1 of 2 parts, chopped in half for loading purposes. Read on for the rest...**


	21. Chapter 20 part 2

**NOTE: This is the second part of Chapter 20. Please make sure you read the other part first.**

* * *

"So, how did you know all that? Just from how her appearance?" John was looking a bit bewildered and amused from Sherlock's description of his Windsor Castle visit.

Shrugging, Sherlock took another sip of his tea. "Well, she has been out of the public eye since Prince Albert died seven years ago. She has gained a lot of weight, and judging by her pallor, she has hardly been outside much during that time. The newspapers are full of her outings with John Brown, but going for a short ride once a day is hardly enough."

John nudged him with his shoulder. "Well, she has been in deep mourning. Give her a break."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock didn't seem moved by the observation. "A year, maybe two, seems reasonable to me. Beyond that is just indulgent. Her actions are affecting the country. Affecting her children."

"How did you tell her all that about the Prince Consort? He wasn't there to read." John agreed with Sherlock's statements about the Queen's mourning.

Finishing his tea, Sherlock put his cup on the table and leaned back. "No, but I met him during my Grand Tour. He was visiting his brother, Ernest, in Cobourg."

John's eyes went wide. "You met him?"

Chuckling at the response, Sherlock was tempted to steal a kiss from the older man. "Aristocracy is a little club, very incestuous. During that year of travelling around Europe, I met princes, barons and earls every night. Bored, wanker gits, most of them. Usually drunk and talking loudly about things they hardly understood."

"Didn't you find anyone interesting during your travels?" John asked, exasperated.

"Actually, I did like Ernest and Albert. They were quite well educated, and appreciated art and music." Sherlock thought back on the conversations he had with them. "Albert was showing signs of illness back then even. He was pale, and looked malnourished. At meals, he stayed away from meat and rich foods, only taking the plainest potatoes and soup. He shunned wine and beer, which is almost unheard-of for Germans."

John gave a considering glance. "So, you think his illness was going on for quite a while, with the symptoms he was showing? That is surprising. He would have had access to the best medical care, the best food."

"He didn't have the best. He didn't have you." Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's shoulders, hugging him close.

Leaning into the embrace, John kissed along his jaw in a way that made Sherlock shiver in response. This man was irresistible. "Well, there are a lot of bad doctors out there, who still believe in leeches, blood letting and cupping. Those would hardly be effective against a chronic digestion condition. I wonder what it was? A tapeworm or another parasite?" He shook his head, considering the possibilities. "No, those wouldn't affect his appetite like that. But he could have had some other condition that wasn't properly treated for a long time, resulting in malnutrition and further weakness."

Sherlock looked down at the doctor, seeing his frustration at not having enough information to diagnose the long dead royal. "Would that be enough to eventually kill him? Or did it weaken him so that the typhoid fever overtook him when he was exposed to it later?"

John scrunched his lips to one side, thinking. "I have read about intestinal conditions where there are obstruction or perforation, that if not treated, would result in sepsis and death. But it's also possible he was weakened, making a secondary infection affect him more strongly than it normally would in a healthy forty year old man."

It made sense. "I hope in time she can come to peace with it all. They had a great love, and he was taken from her at far too young an age." Sherlock looked down at the man beside him, trying to imagine how he would feel if John was taken from him so suddenly. From all accounts, Alfred had been a true partner to the Queen in every way.

Lifting a hand, John laid it along his cheek, leaning in for a kiss. "I'm sure you gave her a lot to think about, and hopefully some peace in time."

He couldn't help but let a grin escape. "She asked me to come back next week."

"She wants to see you again?" John crawled over him, pushing him against the back of the sofa. "Do I need to remind you that you are taken?" His kiss was long and thorough.

Sherlock's hands kept John where he was. "Yes, please remind me again." _Kisses, more kisses, please._ John's kisses were the best he had ever experienced, and he tipped up his face for more.

It was a long time later when John pulled back, his look fond. "The poor woman will be just as bamboozled as Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Sally were by your session with them."

Chuckling, Sherlock shifted on the sofa to lie along the length, his head in John's lap, almost purring when the doctor combed his fingers through his hair. "I don't know what you are talking about."

John scoffed. "Are you saying it's pure coincidence that Mrs. Hudson is training Vanessa in her duties?"

The two women had grown close during Mrs. Hudson's recovery from her fever. Lately, she had been showing Vanessa around the house, explaining the various roles of the staff.

"Or that the teasing between Sally and Greg has shifted to being far more flirty in the recent weeks?" John added, giving Sherlock's hair a playful yank.

Smirking, Sherlock admitted to nothing. It had been easy to plant the ideas into their heads during the practice session two months ago, and had been fun to see the way Sally and Greg snuck lingering, wondering glances at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking. Within a few weeks, they were taking turns around the garden together and sitting close to each other at meals.

"And apparently I'm just as suggestible as they are. I moved in here to be closer to you, and took in a doctor who returned from army service, training him on the newest techniques and letting him get clients." John shrugged, with a self-depreciating grin.

Sherlock pulled at his shoulders, wanting him closer. "Having Dr. Phillips at your practice is great. It gives you more time to be here with me." He was able to steal a few quick kisses before John pulled back. "Besides, I doubt the Queen is as biddable as you lot. She is used to people trying to manipulate her, trying to get her to do what they want."

His main impression of the woman was that she was intelligent and strong willed. She was a little lost now, but beneath the black mourning dress was a woman who had been an advocate for her people.

"I think the difference with you is that you don't want personal gain from her. You have power and money. You have no interest in being in politics yourself." John said, calmly.

Sherlock considered it. "Parliament is a game of power between the top 25% of the men of the nation, who care about nothing for anything beyond their power base or pocketbook. Most of them are just rich gits who haven't matured much since their days in boarding school." And Mycroft ran with that crowd, catering to whoever was in power.

John shook his head at the thought. "All I truly want is for her to remember the things she and Albert did before. The Great Exhibition. The museums and arts that he brought to the people. Advocating for the less fortunate. Maybe using her influence for better conditions for her subjects."

"Well, there have been seven different prime ministers since she became Queen in 1837. None have held power more than six years in a row. She is much more stable than those fickle governments." The more he thought about it, the bigger his grin got.

John's eyes were on his smile, his look admiring. "Hmmmm…what is going on in that big brain of yours to make you smile like that?"

Happiness bubbled through Sherlock, and he jumped off the sofa, bringing John up with him to swirl around in a circle, a bastardized version of the waltz.

"Steady on…" John gasped, laughing as they almost lost their balance. He was smiling up at Sherlock, his eyes curious.

"Don't you see, John? This is so perfect!" Sherlock chuckled, stopping and putting his hands on John's shoulders. "I could become one of the Queen's advisors, if I do this right. She is a relatively healthy woman, and I doubt she will release the throne to Bertie. So, she will be a powerful figure for the foreseeable future."

John nodded, caught up in Sherlock's excitement.

"But you know what is the best part? Mycroft is a monarchist…my whole family is, really. It will kill him to know I have influence in a sphere he has never had access to." Sherlock's mind was whirling with the possibilities.

Chuckling, John put the pieces together. "He will eventually hear that the Queen is consulting with the medium, William Scott. And he knows that is you! Will he dare to reveal your identity?"

Sherlock tapped a long finger against his lips. "I can get a few friends of the house to lean on him about that. He is far too political an animal to risk upsetting men of that stature. I am protected."

Snuggling with John, his mind was running through the possibilities. Here was a great game, playing his knowledge of the aristocracy against itself. He had great respect for the Queen, and could give her inside information and insight to help her.

* * *

"Hello, Sherlock."

Opening his eyes, he blinked up at the rumpled doctor leaning over him.

Reaching out fast, his big hands yanked on John's shoulders, tilting him enough to lose his balance and fall onto the bed. Sherlock rolled him onto his back, and gave him a long kiss. "Hello."

John looked a bit winded from the tumble and the kiss, his blue eyes sparkling. "Do you know what today is?"

Squinting at the ceiling, Sherlock sighed. "Monday, the 19th."

"Yes, but that's not what I meant." John rolled Sherlock over onto his back, straddling his hips and looking down at him with a very pleased grin. "It's two months."

Sherlock's green gaze locked with John's dark blue. He had lost track of the time. "You mean…"

John's hands came down on either side of his head, and he lowered his face down to be right over Sherlock's. "The game was officially done as of…," he glanced to the alarm clock on the bedside table, "...fourteen minutes ago."

"And that means…" Sherlock teased, just wanting to hear John say it. Make it real.

"It means," John said slowly, shifting his legs one at a time to be between Sherlock's, "that we won." He lowered onto him, pressing his body into Sherlock's, as his lips caught his in a heated kiss.

Like all the other times they had kissed, it heated up quickly but this time they weren't pulling back. Sherlock groaned when John's incredible mouth travelled down his neck, and his hands were unbuttoning his pajama top, skimming quickly from button to button. Was this all a dream? Had John really come to his bed at fourteen minutes past midnight to seduce him?

Questions and deeper thoughts fled his mind as their clothes came off. He had always wondered if John was truly ready for the reality of sex with another man, but it only took a few minutes to be completely convinced. Another few minutes had him gasping out John's name, his moans almost constant.

* * *

"So, when you say we 'won' the game, what exactly do you mean?" Sherlock asked, feeling relaxed and probably only a few minutes away from falling asleep.

He had been dreading the last two weeks of their game, but it had gone surprisingly smoothly. John had slept in the bedroom next to Sherlock's, and just being able to share more time together was a great support.

The rest of the time, he was wonderfully occupied with thinking about his next session with the Queen. He was in contact with many people, gleaning useful information, putting it all together. He still went out to the other medium sessions Claire scheduled, but he found the work around the important weekly one almost completely satisfying on its own. It was a feast for his mind, a challenge he was perfectly suited for.

John snuggled closer, kissing his bare shoulder. "How about eating together most meals, working in the lab, going off to work, and sleeping in the same bed?"

Looking at the sleepy man in his arms, Sherlock felt a sense of wonder. This man had challenged him to rethink his comfortable existence, and now he was embarking in an exciting direction he had never considered before. One he had never dreamed it to be possible.

He knew he gave the same back to John, challenged him to do more. He had helped a housemaid get work she loved in a morgue, and was helping an army doctor brush up his medical skills and establish a private practice. Lately, he had even mentioned taking on a new medical graduate each year, one who was like John and needed a chance to build up his savings and client base.

John was everything he never realized he was missing in his life. A partner to share everything with. A lover. A best friend. Someone who challenged him to do his best. Someone who loved his home and his created family as much as he did. Someone who knew the darkest deepest secrets of his past and still kissed him like he was a treasure. Someone who loved him fully, completely.

"Together, happily ever after…" Sherlock said softly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man. Not wanting to disturb his love.

* * *

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Sorry for the long wait for this final chapter. It was a challenge to get it where I wanted it, and I hope this is a satisfying ending to my long romp around Victorian England for you. I have enjoyed writing this and delving deeper into the research than I originally intended, but you all seemed to like it as much as I did. Thanks for reading & commenting. Your feedback is very appreciated! It's a bit of a sappy ending, but I'm a sap.

-Queen Victoria: When she was born in 1819, she was fifth in line to the throne and not considered much of a contender. Her English father died when she was only one, leaving her to be raised by her German mother, her Irish advisor Lord Conroy, and her German governess, Baroness Lehzen. Her mother and Conroy raised her very strictly, isolating her from others, to make her more dependent on them. She slept in the same bed as her mother and was not even allowed to go down the stairs without holding an adult's hand. By the time she was eleven, she was the Heir Presumptive, as the king's brothers had died with no heirs. Her mother and Conroy tried to pressure her to agree to extended regency, with her mother in power, if the King died before Victoria was 18. She resisted, and came into power a month after she turned 18, distancing herself from them as much as possible.

She married German Prince Albert of Saxe-Colburg and Gotha three years later. Their marriage was very loving and passionate, and they had nine healthy children. He died December 14, 1861, and she went into deep mourning, withdrawing from public life and wearing black dresses the rest of her life. She passed away in 1901, with over 63 years on the throne, the longest of any monarch until Queen Elizabeth II (who has now passed 65 years).

-Prince Albert: One of his most significant achievements was the Great Exhibition of 1851, organized with Henry Cole. It was the first world's fair of manufactured products. To house it all, they built the massive Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, and the exhibition drew six million visitors during the five months it ran. Profits from the highly successful venture were used to found the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum in the area nearby, nicknamed 'Albertopolis'. The remaining surplus was used to set up an educational trust to provide grants and scholarships for industrial research, which continue today. After his death, Queen Victoria used some of the funds to built Royal Albert Hall, a concert hall that is one of the UK's most treasured and distinctive buildings, still holding over 390 events a year.

-Lady Ely was a Lady of the Bedchamber and one of Queen Victoria's most trusted attendants, from 1851 to 1889. She had a nervous disposition, and this fed into her constant illnesses. She was a loyal and devoted servant to the Queen.

-John Brown: He was an outdoor servant (gillie) at their Scottish castle, Balmoral from the 1850s. As a widow, he became a close friend of hers, often encouraging her to go riding and get out of the castle. There were rumours of a romantic relationship, and some even called her 'Mrs. Brown'. There is an excellent movie of this name starring Judi Dench as the Queen and Billy Connolly about this period of her life.

-The meeting was held in the White Drawing Room of Windsor Castle, in the Royal Apartments area. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert dined there when they didn't have dinner guests. The Blue Room was adjoining, the bedroom Prince Albert died in. When in Windsor Castle after that, she used the Oak Room instead for dining instead of the White Drawing Room.

-German Food: _Sauerbraten_ translates to 'sour' or 'pickled' and 'roast meat', as the beef (or other meat) is marinated in vinegar and seasonings for several days to tenderize tough cuts of meat before it is cooked. It is regarded as one of the national dishes of Germany. _Grünkohl_ is kale that is boiled, chopped up, and cooked with lard, onions and seasonings until very soft. _Salzkartoffel_ are potatoes that are peeled, boiled, and lightly seasoned.

-Prince Albert Illness and Death: He was seriously ill for a few years before he died, with some kind of chronic stomach aliment. In 1861, Victoria's mother died in March, and he took over her duties while she dealt with her grief. In the summer, they visited their oldest son, Bertie, in Ireland where he was doing army service. There was a scandal of the young prince getting sexually involved with an Irish actress around that time. The scandal was spreading in the fall, and itdistressed Victoria and Albert. Even though he was still ill, he visited Bertie at his university to convince him to stop the affair. Three weeks later, Albert was gravely ill and diagnosed with typhoid fever and died. Modern writers have questioned the diagnosis, suspecting the chronic disease may have been Crohn's disease, renal failure or abdominal cancer.

-For the sake of this story, I am going with the Crohn's disease theory. For the timeline, Sherlock was on his Grand Tour of Europe in 1860, and met Prince Albert and his brother Ernest, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha in Germany. There are reports of Albert being there at this time, as he had an incident of his carriage team bolting and having to jump for his life to avoid a collision. Prince Albert was said to have stomach issues as early as August 1859, so it is feasible that he was eating lighter foods he could tolerate better than alcohol and rich meat dishes.

-Victorian Politics: It was a time of declining power in the monarchy, and republicanism was fed by her mourning and withdrawn from public life. A constitutional monarchy gradually emerged, with voting reforms increasing the power of the House of Commons and decreasing the power of the House of Lords and the Queen. She wrote political letters extensively, and had close links with powerful families all over Europe. She was considered 'the grandmother of Europe', as many of her children and grandchildren married into the royal houses of the other countries.


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